A Deck of 24
by mintjellyfish
Summary: *Companion fic to Roulette* As the years went on, they blurred into nameless, faceless boys and girls whose entire lives boiled down to how they met their end. Never forget the dead. Please. They deserve to be honored. 24 one-shots of the tributes from the 61st Hunger Games.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The tributes that died in the Games. They don't really mean much to you, do they? Of course I'm not talking about your loved ones. You remember if your family or friend or lover went into the Arena and lost. Who wouldn't?

I mean the tributes that didn't play a role in your life: unrelated tributes, tributes from the other districts, tributes from so long ago they barely showed reruns of their Games on TV.

But why is that? Why aren't they remembered by their own country?

It's simple really. For one, there were just far too many children that went in year after year to keep up with every single one of them. Decades have gone by since the first nominated sacrifice went to play in a game where no one truly wins. 75 years of bloodshed, of gore, of senseless violence. As the years went on, they blurred into nameless, faceless boys and girls whose entire lives boil down to how they met their end, and that's if it was significant or gruesome enough to plant a memory in your brain.

Not what they used to be or what they could have been. Just what killed them. Most dead tributes didn't even get the right to be remembered why they're dead in the first place, simply background characters to the main protagonists and antagonists in every Games.

Some instances the Victor or the entire Games have been lost in history. Ask someone who Fallon Yelverton is or the runner-up to the 4th Hunger Games and see what responses you get.

Characters. That's all they were to you. The remembered and the forgotten, the winners and the losers. They lost their humanity the second their cannon blasted. It happened to your loved ones too. In time, your memory of them got altered. Situations turned into scenes, personalities turned into traits. Specifics became broader and broader. One day you forgot their smell, how their voice sounded, the way you had to stop yourself from laughing when they made that funny face whenever they were angry, how they'd sneak a bite of dessert before dinner and Nancy would complain and complain but you let her because she was your baby girl. And it scares me. I try to remember my daughter as she was, but I can't, I just can't. All I can think about is how she died, she died right in front of my eyes and I could do nothing at all to save her.

…..I'm sorry about that little tangent. Where was I?

Oh yes, I know now. Don't feel bad about forgetting. It's human nature. Your life is too busy, too hectic to waste time on memorizing every child of the Hunger Games. You have work that needs to be completed, not to mention your own children to look after. We have a country to rebuild and make new! Being an unfulfilled, miserable recluse like me isn't worth throwing your life away. It's too painful as well, to remember. Who wants to obsess over the death of 1,743 people?

You didn't realize that many had lost their lives to the Hunger Games did you?

I want to focus on one Hunger Games in particular, the 61st Hunger Games. That one doesn't get the attention it deserves, overshadowed by more popular, gorier ones. My daughter participated in those Games and lost. A boy from District Ten became the winner. Such a stupid, stupid idiot. Had the nerve to come here on his Victory Tour and speak to the crowd like we were proud to see him. Couldn't even look me in the eye and own up to what he did to my family. If you ask me he never had the brains, skill, or strength to win. And from District Ten at that. That filthy hellhole. After the war was over the first thing I did was find his grave and spit on it.

My opinion of him may be a little bit biased.

If you take just one thing from what I said and ignore the rest, know this:

Never forget the dead. Please. They deserve to be honored.

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><p><strong>So I lied, but for the best! I'm giving you A Deck of 24 much earlier than expected. In fact, I'm just about done writing Valor's piece. His should be up in the next few days if things work out accordingly. Before you ask, I didn't have a specific female tribute in mind when I wrote this. You can make this anyone's father, it's all to your liking. I wanted to make this as open-ended as possible.<strong>


	2. Valor: Protégé

**Author's Note: If you haven't read my other story Roulette, I highly advise you to do so prior to starting A Deck of 24. That way you will have better foundation of my version of Panem and the 61****st**** Hunger Games and won't be clueless when I refer back to it.**

**For those of you that have already read Roulette, welcome back! I'm excited to see you here again. Two things inspired me to write this companion fanfic. The first is my small critique with the way Collins treated her other tributes. While I do realize that the books were in Katniss's POV, they were treated like training dummies rather than human beings. Not one was given a name in the Tribute Guide for Christ's sake! Also Chapter 11 in Roulette motivated me to create this. Writing that chapter gave me so many ideas that I knew I had to expand on the lives of the other tributes. I couldn't limit them to just one paragraph each.**

**So without further ado, I present to you the first chapter of A Deck of 24.**

**(Warning: I have a mild obsession with naming District One characters)**

* * *

><p><strong>Valor Rousseau, District One: Protégé<strong>

**Place in the 61st Hunger Games: 7th Place  
><strong>

Each boy files into a perfect line, legs locked, shoulders straight, heads high. Thirty of them, sparkling gold uniforms signifying their rank. Second-year trainees, the ones who said yes to a life of eternal fame and fortune. Will represent the first and most luxurious district of Panem in The Hunger Games. The tomorrow of District One. The golden ones.

We tell these lies to each batch of thirteen year olds on their first day of training. Gets them all motivated, pumped, thinking they'll become the next big Victor one day. I like working with them the most, the thirteen year olds. They've all completed the compulsory year each twelve-year-old must attend at The Academy of Physical Wellness and Healthy Living (no one calls the Training Grounds by its real name). But they're gullible, impressionable. Better yet, they actually listen to you. They're young enough to know they aren't hot shit. Once they turn sixteen though, they'll walk around the place like they're the greatest thing to pop out of a woman's vagina.

If they make it to sixteen. Truth be told, most of these boys won't ever go into the Games. Most will drop out before they could be nominated to volunteer, and that's a good thing. The majority are here because the Training Grounds is a way to get out of having a real job. You only have to work five hours out the week instead of the longer shifts a regular citizen have to put in. No school either. Digging for shiny rocks is just a hobby for me now and all the knowledge I need is right here at the Training Grounds.

Then they're the ones in it solely for the popularity. Training to be a Career is the cool thing to do, a way to impress the opposite sex. Nothing wrong with taking a few ladies home with you, I've done it plenty of times, but you gotta put your money where your mouth is and own up to your duties. The attention-seeking ones rarely do.

The ones that piss me off the most are the sissies that stay since their parents think it's the privileged thing to do. Those spoiled brats always leave the minute Maman and Papa finds something else to occupy their meaningless lives with. I make it a point to work them the hardest.

When the interested are separated from the passionate, only a few are left. Still, most won't go in. Many fail at the Expedition Course, where we drop them off in the outskirts of One and they have to survive a week on their own. If they're strong enough to pass that, they fail the Finals, an all-out brawl to see which three boys and three girls will race to the stage at the Reapings. No one ever dies in the Finals. Usually. At the Reapings, a lot of people get cold feet and simply don't volunteer. There's a difference between wanting to go into the Games and actually going into the Games. Kids seem to realize this the moment the escort prepares for the annual volunteers to barge their way to the cameras. The consequences of not running to volunteer are so severe that almost every nominee at least pretends to want to make it first. The ones that lose blame it on faulty shoes or someone cheating when we all know the truth.

The training process is long and difficult, but it's supposed to be that way. We don't want Lazy Larimar or Spoiled Shimmer embarrassing District One. Our tributes are supposed to come back alive. We have a reputation to uphold. We don't have the second-highest number of Victors just cause we're pretty to look at.

Arms folded, I walk back and forth in front of my group, black uniform in perfect condition. Eighteen years old, the highest rank a trainee can be. In the corner sits Burgundy, smoking on his handcrafted pipe, looking on approvingly at my efforts to lead the boys. Technically this is his group and I'm only the assistant, but he's an old Victor who needs a cane to move around with. Nowadays he mostly monitors while I direct.

Inspecting each of their faces, I give my signature sneer and begin. "Remember that speech you were given the first day you decided to continue on with Career Training?" I pause, not really waiting for an answer. "Well it was a lie. All of it. Garbage, just to get you to stay."

The range of emotions is hilarious. Confusion. Terror. Nervousness. Bewilderment. Some boys try to be brave and keep up the blank mask they've put on, so I continue.

"The majority of you will drop out in the next year or two and begin your pathetic lives mining for gemstones or slaving in factories. Others of you will go on to blow your parents' money and live with Maman's tit in your mouth until the day you die. For those of you smart enough, or stupid enough depending on your actions, eventually you will become tributes. Few of you will win. Many of you will die." With that I stop in front of a tall boy, curly blond hair tied back in a small ponytail, fierce blue eyes bearing right into my own daring me to address him. Gloss is his name.

"Do you want to face a horrible death for your family to witness?"

Face set, he answers. "No sir!"

I pat his shoulder and chuckle. "Good. Do any of you want to die in the Arena?"

"No sir!"

I put my hand behind my ear, demanding a louder response. "What was that?"

"No sir!" the boys shout in unison.

They don't call me Bossman for nothing.

"Good. Break up into pairs. I wanna see where you are at hand-to-hand combat." I go around and monitor each match. They're where I expected them to be at, novices. A handful of boys are decent for their age, having the speed but lacking the strength and technique to take down their opponent. Only three are naturals, pinning their weaker sparring partner within seconds. Hand-to-hand combat is one of my specialties. I know a born fighter when I see one.

I'm giving tips to one trainee on how to aim for the legs when a puny boy calls for help across the room. "Valor! My nose is bleeding!" he whines, running over in my direction.

"If you come any closer to complain, a nosebleed will be the last thing you'll have to worry about boy. Suck it up and fight!" I warn and shoot him the most terrifying glare he's probably ever seen in his life. The boy scampers off before I can reach my feet.

The rest of the time goes along smoothly, grunts and shouts from the trainees serving as background noise to Burgundy and I's light conversation about Career Training and life around the district. As old people have a habit of doing, every topic somehow relates to Burgundy's life and forms into this story or that life lesson. I nod and smile politely at each drawn-out speech and soon call the boys' training to a close since I don't think I can take any more of the old man's talking. I call for two boys to spar in front of the group and show me what they've learn. The blond boy from before, Gloss, steps up first. A huskier kid with glasses walks up next, cracking his knuckles.

"Pay attention trainees. Weaponless combat is the foundation to offensive fighting. There may not be nearby weapons to use in the Arena, or any at all," I tell the group and turn my attention to the volunteers. "You have 60 seconds to bring down your opponent and pin him. Use any method you want, just don't kill each other. The infirmary is open in case you ladies break anything." Gulping, the boys don't look so sure of themselves anymore. I blow the whistle and they begin.

Since the husky kid is bigger, he has the strength advantage over Gloss, throwing stronger kicks and punches that look painful. This doesn't stop the slimmer boy from holding his own in the fight, bouncing back from each blow like they're nothing. With his resilience also comes Gloss's skill. While he isn't fast, the blond is impressive for his age, pinpointing the area of his opponent's body that'll hurt the most when hit and delivering them with swift, precise movements. At one point he almost succeeds in breaking the other boy's glasses. Definite potential.

Both boys get equal hits on the other and come to a standstill, walking a circle waiting to see who does what first. The tension in the air is thick, and so is the temperature. I let out a disappointed sigh when Gloss takes the bait and foolishly lunges for the boy. The kid smiles, having him right where he wants him. Taken by the legs, tossed into the air and slammed to the ground, Gloss doesn't know what hit him and before he knows it, the three-second pin is over.

"What did Gloss do wrong?" I immediately ask the group. The bigger boy helps Gloss up and I stop him from stomping off, angry that he embarrassed himself like that.

The puny kid from before raises his hand first. I reluctantly choose him. "He was too hasty and didn't plan ahead?" He stares at me, begging for my approval.

"Surprisingly you're right. _Bon_," I say. Burgundy motions for me to come over. "Run a few laps around the track guys then we'll work on your shelter building. I'll be back." When I walk over to where he's sitting, Burgundy informs me that Emerald wants to see me. Nervously I walk through the hallways of the main building, pictures and miniature shrines of every District One Victor adorning the walls. I take my time to reach the elaborate, bejeweled doors of the office, going over every single thing I could have done wrong and come up with nothing. Did I push the boys too hard? One of the girls trying to claim sexual harassment again? Taking a deep breath, I open the doors and put on my winning smile.

"Emerald! How nice to see you!"

"Cut the bullshit and sit down you Glitterhead," the older man lets out a gruff laugh and pulls me into a hug when I walk in. Emerald is the Head Trainer here, the real Bossman, mandating everything that happens inside the Training Grounds. From programming to financing, nothing goes on without his say-so. Most importantly he gets the final say on who goes into the Arena. He's been doing it for eighteen years and brought back four Victors, a high amount. Emerald isn't a Victor himself. He never got the chance to be; got sick just days before the Reapings and still has the bad cough decades later. Still, he's treated with the same respect as one, if not more. Fading blond hair, fierce green eyes, bulging muscles, the forty year old looks like he would have been nothing to mess with in the Games. He would've won had he went in. I'm sure of it.

"So how have you been _gar__ç__on_?" Emerald smiles. I'm one of his favorites. He and my father used to work in the same mining unit back in their teenage years, so they've been friends ever since.

"Trying to whip these boys into shape. I tell ya; they get worse each year." We laugh, Emerald nodding his head in agreement. We wind down and enjoy ourselves in the air-conditioned office over fine whiskey we get for free from the brewery across the road, talking and joking around about nothing in particular. Soon the jokes stop and the conversation turns serious.

"Valor," we're both a few drinks in and a little relaxed. Swaying and slurring my words, the man can hold his liquor much better than I can. "You're like family to me. A son. Your father and I have been friends for a long time now."

Closing my eyes, I slouch in my chair, twirling the brown liquid in back and forth in my hand. "Yeah, yeah, yeah Bossman. What are ya doing? Going soft on me?"

Emerald lets out a nervous chuckle. "It's just…don't you think it would be better to forget about the Games? They aren't for another five weeks. Become a trainer here and get treated with the same respect as a Victor. You'd have a good future ahead of you."

Eyes flying open, I sit straight up. "Why are you saying this? You don't believe in me, in my ability to win the Games?"

The man starts to cough and I pat him a few times on the back to get him to stop. He goes to fiddling with the several rings on his fingers when he comes to, a nervous habit of his whenever something's bothering him. I wait patiently for his answer but I never get one. Taking a long swig of his drink, Emerald goes to leave, avoiding my eyes the way through.

"You haven't answered me yet," I speak, demanding him to stop and tell me what's wrong. "Why are you questioning me?"

In his expensive silk shirt and fine black slacks, Emerald turns around with a look of deep sorrow, already letting me know what he thinks before he says it to me. "Too many of you have gone into that Arena and never came out. You'd be the sixth Valor, the sixth in your family to die. And with the untimely death of your sister-"

"Don't talk about Grace," I say. Pouring another drink, the whiskey burns away at my throat as I take it in one gulp. The sensation feels good to me, like it's fighting off the emotions for my sake, helping me out when I need it most. I go to pour another from the elixir when Emerald snatches it away. I glare at the wiser man but understand why. Too many people depend on the stuff to get them through the day, having it so readily available since we produce it here in One. 'Having a bad day? A drink or six can heal that!' is what most guys around here believe.

Though I tell myself not to, I think back on my older sister and how awful she was mistreated. Grace went into the Games three years ago. She did so well all throughout. Wowed at the Opening Ceremonies, scored a ten in Training, dazzled the audience in a dress she'd never wear in a million years. She was beautiful and deadly, just what the Capitol loved. Grace trained so hard and did what the Capitol wanted just to be crushed by a boulder. A damn boulder. It's not fair; she didn't even get to die honorably in a fight. She was set up by the Gamemakers like a sorry District Eleven kid. How dare they treat my big sister like trash. A Rousseau deserves better than that.

"But I'm different Emerald," I tell him. He goes to sit down again in his lush green leather chair, staring at me worriedly. "I won't do what Grace did. She must have bored the audience. If it means killing a twelve year old to survive then so be it. I'll give them a show, I promise."

"It's the exact same things she said about your cousin," Emerald shakes his head. "No, no Valor. I don't feel comfortable sending you in."

"Who am I up against for the girls? Cerise, Radiance, or Monet? I can take them all, no problem. I got this Emerald. I can win," I try to convince him. He's still trying to tell me otherwise when a tiny toy car flies across my shoulder and hits him square in the nose. We look around to see where it came from and find the chocolate-haired culprit. Smiling, the little boy strides into the office and toddles his way into the bigger man's arms, laughing as he's twirled in the air. Breathing a sigh of relief, the five year old instantly lightens the mood of the tense conversation. Maybe with him here he'll have a change of heart.

"Bullseye Papa! Bullseye!" he shouts.

"My little Marvel!" Emerald smiles, placing him on his lap. Marvel relaxes his head on his father's broad chest, tossing the little car in the air and catching it each time. Even at his age, he's got a great throwing arm and can catch the smallest of objects. "Now this here Valor, this is a Victor. Am I right _mon fils?_" Emerald tickles Marvel and I smile at the giggling boy.

Pale green eyes show me the arrogance he already possesses. No doubt he is Emerald's son. "When I get older I'm gonna win and become a big Victor."

"Yeah right," I tousle his short haircut and he lets out another giggle.

"You're gonna lose Valor!" he sticks out his tongue and puts it back in before I can snatch it away. What a little brat. That's Marvel for ya.

"Remember that when I'm training you for the Games," I say, trying to think of everything but losing. I know he's just a kid but no one wants to hear that dreaded word, especially when the Games are so close by. I've already done all the preliminary tasks to become a nominee. I was one of the seven boys to complete the Expedition Course. An abandoned factory was the domain. Capitolites have a way of running their mouths too much and with one purchase of the big city's newspaper, information spreads fast. And I'm healed up from the Finals. Still a little sore from Justice wailing on me though. Damn that redhead.

I think I'm ready. I know I'm ready. But being ready doesn't mean you win.

But I'm different than the rest. Different than Grace. What's the harm if I give it my all?

Sixth time's the charm right?


	3. Radiance: Choices

**Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of A Deck of 24. I didn't plan on Valor's one-shot being so long, but when inspiration hits it hits hard. If you don't want them to be so long, tell me please. Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Radiance St. Noir, District One: Choices<strong>

**Place in the 61****st**** Hunger Games: 3****rd**** Place**

"Beans, tissue, turkey, deodorant, juice, onions, shampoo, and dog food for Brilliance. That's what's on the list Radiance. Nothing more, nothing less. Understand?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm not stupid. By the way, the answer to my question please?"

Hand in hand, we walk under the morning sun, letting out a yawn every two steps we take. People pass and greet us by while we trot along the way, workers up bright and early to start their shifts. The lucky ones will be trapped inside factories all day producing and packaging the luxury items we're known for. Makeup, wigs, alcohol, things of that sort. The unlucky ones are forced to unearth crystals underground to satisfy the Capitolites' obsession with the useless rocks.

Ribbons perfected, shoes polished, handmade dresses starched and pressed, we're up for an entirely different and simpler reason. Maman sent us to the market before school to fetch today's dinner and other necessities, told to go early to avoid the evening crowd that usually occurs after work is over. It's a far ways off from where we live, the apartments close by the factories, and I distract myself with the pristine pebble-laden pathways underneath our feet. Eventually I fall behind and have to hear it from Soleil that I'm moving too slow.

Swinging the basket back and forth in her hand, my sister looks ready to whack me with the thing.

"Radiance, don't ask me anymore questions about it. I didn't like Training okay? It wasn't for me and it won't be for you either."

"Could you at least tell me what to expect?"

She rolls her eyes. "Work. Lots and lots of demanding work."

My sister and I are so different that it's a wonder we're related. Only a year between us, it feels like seven sometimes. For someone named after the Sun, Soleil sure isn't too sunny, rarely ever smiling or laughing when I can't stop doing either. I keep telling her the constant attitude she has is turning away the boys when she could get many if she tried. Not the awkward, desperate leftovers not even the ugliest girl in One would touch. I mean the elite, _la crème de la crème_ is dying for a piece of her. Shimmering blonde hair and porcelain skin, Soleil has that stereotypical One look the Capitol raves over, I don't; mud-colored locks and tanner skin, I look like something dragged from District Twelve. She already hit puberty too while I'm still stuck with a flat chest and next to nothing hips. One day though, one day.

What's worse is that Soleil doesn't train anymore. Giving up the minute she turned thirteen last month, she pours herself into school and factory life like it's worth something. I was outraged while my parents were overjoyed with her decision. No one in my family supports the Games. The only joys my parents care about are getting off work early and a shiny glass of rum. I, on the other hand, can't wait to start training. It's the next level in my life. They can't stop me. No one can, no one will. I say this in the most humble way possible but getting what I want just comes naturally to me. With enough smiles and persuasion, you can get anyone to do anything. It's the perks of being pretty (but not as pretty as Soleil though). My parents know how strong-willed I am and are usually too tired from work to object or argue with me anyway.

Clearly Soleil has her priorities all wrong. School and bottling perfumes for a living. Besides her beauty, I pity my older sister really. What type of future does she have besides being a surly housewife?

"Well I'm excited to start training. You should be happy for me."

"Learning how to murder children is nothing to celebrate over," she murmurs.

"Soleil! You shouldn't say stuff like that aloud," I whisper, in fear a Peacekeeper overheard her. "You could be punished for that. More importantly I could too!"

She shrugs. "_Tait-toi. _I said it under my breath."

"Give Training another go. Come on. I want my big sis having fun with me," I go to convince her. She isn't swayed.

"For the fourth time today, no. And there's nothing fun about Training. You'll see. Oh you'll see."

Wewalk inside the market building, already swamped with shoppers. Everyone here is from _La Ouvriere_, the neighborhood we and the majority of the population live in. The working-class section of District One. Papa tells me all the time that we have it good compared to those in the other districts but pass by _La Bourgeoisie_, the rich section of One, and you'll see one-story shacksputting the Victor's Village to shame. They all can afford them too, owning their own shops or coming from old money long before the Dark Days. Their cars, clothes, hair, all better than us. I bet they even smell expensive. Probably pee gold and shed diamond tears too.

I wouldn't mind peeing gold.

Soleil glad to have me out of her hair, I make a beeline to the only place in the store that matters. Aisle Nine, in between the canned goods and bakery. I've got it memorized. Jars filled to the brim with candy of all shapes, shades, and sizes line the shelves, tempting me, demanding me to purchase them all. When I reach the gumball jar I just can't take it anymore.

I gotta have some. I'll only take two. Two aren't that much. No one will notice. So many people are coming in and out the market. Who will miss gumballs anyway? They're so cheap.

Double checking for any witnesses, I swipe a red and green gumball and quickly stash them inside my pocket. If I'm caught, who knows what the Peacekeepers would do to me. Instinctively I jump when Soleil teleports behind me saying she's done. Paying for the groceries at the register, I place the sweetest smile on my face while the cashier, a fat, permanently jolly man, gushes over how well-behaved we are, how there needs to be more nice young ladies like us, and other drivel I tune out in the rush to leave the store.

"Did you steal anything again?" is the first question Soleil asks me when we're outside. The way she looks at me tells me she already knows the answer.

I scoff, pretending to be offended by her accusation. "Of course not! Accusing your own sister for such a heinous crime? How dare you."

It's time to head over to the Tesserae Room a few blocks down. It's called the Tesserae Room, not Tesserae Building, for a reason; a small, weathered two-roomed place, there are never any crowds waiting. Hardly anyone uses the Tesserae Room to the point where the old woman and her daughter that operate it know every customer and their children by name. When you think of District One, you don't think of us needing much tesserae, and it's the truth. Most make too much to be eligible for it and the small minority that can receive it is too proud to be seen with government rations. That's the reason there's a two per family limit here. It's just so readily available.

To my reluctance, I'm given the job of carrying the heavy pails of grain and oil and in my trying to adjust one digging into my arm, a gumball goes flying out, happily rolling straight across Soleil's foot.

Whoops.

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><p>They rescue me ten minutes into schooltime.<p>

Bouncing on my tiptoes, I don't try to contain my anticipation, contrasting with the expressionless Peacekeepers that escort me to the Training Grounds. I am now an official student at The Academy of Physical Wellness and Healthy Living.

No more factory work. No more school. The next level. This is it. This is it!

Arriving at the tall black gates, other twelve year old boys and girls wait in line to be ushered in. I try not to compare myself to the others but I can't help it. Hair tied in a simple ponytail and clad in plain athletic wear, I stand out like a dirt speck in the sea of perfection. Dressed in their very best, not a strand of hair or a piece of fabric is out of place on any of the girls. I even spot makeup on a few, lips and eyes colored to make them seem far older than what they really are. Did they get the wrong memo? Where do they think they're going, tea time? We're here to train and fight, not dance and chit-chat about girly foolishness.

One girl, a dowdy blonde, turns around to critique my appearance and scowls right in my face. So you wanna play that game huh? I glare right back. Let the attitudes begin.

"Got a problem?" I growl.

She isn't expecting the ferocity and quickly turns back around.

I get the last laugh when all but three of us (not including the ugly blonde) is sent to the lockers to change. Our trainer, Veronique, seems permanently pissed off by their stupid decision and berates them even after they're in the appropriate attire. Actually, she always looks infuriated. No one questions or dares breaths while she talks. Veronique Giroux is known for her temper first than Games second. With her unflatteringly masculine features and the brutal way she annihilated the tributes in her Games, people gossip about the middle-aged Victor being the bastard child of a Peacekeeper from Two. Of course, this only worsens her anger.

"Don't try that shit with me again ladies," she barks at us. I feel guilty when I didn't even do anything, not used to hearing such vulgar words. My parents don't curse like that and make sure we don't either. Not bothering to get to know us, Veronique dives straight into giving orders. "One group hit the wall, one group to the race track, one the pool, and the last to hand-to-hand combat. Rotate after 45 minutes. Go!"

Blowing her whistle, we're broken out of our daze and look around confusedly for direction. First day of training and we're just thrown into it, made to figure out the massive center ourselves. I take the initiative and head for the rock climbing wall, a few girls following suit. A mountain compared to every other station here, I contemplate switching to the race track but realize it's too late when a young trainer already has my harness on and five other girls' strapped and ready. I need to show them I'm not afraid of anything.

The goal of the day is to impress Veronique Giroux. Show her the tribute she'll be mentoring one day.

If I can convince the craziest Victor here that I'm worth something, the others will flock to me easy.

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><p>On second thought, I might have been a bit <em>too<em> ambitious. At each station, I find a unique way to embarrass myself and get worse with each second. I nearly fall to my death twice climbing the wall, missing the handles or plain slipping mid-movement. Some girls scale the thing like cockroaches while it takes all the little lower body strength I have to heave my body up. Since rock climbing zapped my energy, running and swimming is a challenge. Though I'm not last at either races, I'm far from where I want to be, first place. It's frustrating because I know I'm great at both, a natural. And after the ugly girl and her lapdogs "accidentally" shove me on the race tracks it's all I can do to not take her down right then and there.

By the time I'm sent to hand-to-hand combat, I'm tired, hungry, irritated, and soaking wet. Trailing water as I walk to the wrestling match, I'm clueless on what to expect. Fighting doesn't come naturally to me. I handle altercations with my tongue and wit not my fists. But I'll try my hardest to beat whichever girl is called next. I'm not about to be humiliated first day in. To win the Hunger Games, I'll have to fight eventually. This is just the beginning.

Well look who we have here. My newfound bully is called to battle me. Veronique says her name. Jewel. Such a common, low-class one. Told to shake hands, we see who can squeeze the other's the hardest, not letting go till Veronique shouts 'you two twats!' and demands us to begin.

Her hands are rough. Worker's hands. "Those calluses on your hands are so unbecoming Jewel," I say. "Your family must be poor. Do you need lotion? Oh wait, you probably can't afford it."

Unaffected by my taunts, she slicks her wet hair back. "All talk is what you are. Let's see you fight _salope_."

The battle starts. I have no idea what I'm doing but neither does Jewel. In my head, I imagine we look pretty incredible because I feel pretty awesome. Fists swinging, feet in the air, dodging and bouncing back from every hit like true Careers. When I hear what sounds like a crazed hyena howling a few feet away, I know we've failed to look the part.

"What is this? You call scratching and screaming fighting? Horrible!" Veronique really finds our battle, well, tiff, hilarious.

More and more girls crowd around us as the fight continues. Eventually nearly all the trainees have surrounded us and chosen their favorite to root for. I hear my name more than Jewel's and they go wild when the red print of my hand splashes across her face.

Damn that felt good.

I bring my hand back for Round Two but this time she's smart. Grabbing my hand with surprising reflexes, something slams into my stomach and I feel a force rake across my jaw. Taking my limp hair in her fat hands, the world spins as I'm thrown across the mat with such power I toss and tumble at least four times before someone's foot is on top of me and I hear a countdown in the distance.

What just happened?

Squinting my eyes to adjust to the harsh lighting of the center, I shut them quickly at seeing Jewel's face inches from mine, "So Radiance, you were saying?"

To add insult to injury, she kicks me on my side and goes to revel in her win with her lackies, now a fanbase from the amount of cheers I hear.

I touch the forming knot on my head and flinch when I witness the pain. "My head hurts," I moan. "And my mouth is bleeding."

Taking me off the ground with one swoop, Veronique cackles at my dangling, injured self. "You're a piece of work, you know that?" she says. "Girls like you come in every year, thinking they're the head-bitch-in-charge. Ha! It'll be a miracle if you last a year."

Plopping me on the ground like a bag of garbage, she howls again and I'm left stranded trying to make sense of what just happened.

I don't see anything funny at all.

* * *

><p>I wave to my family under the night sky as I meet them in front of our apartment. A decent, brick-layered thing with a pretty garden out back. Walking slowly inside, we're all drained from the day's work. The moment our feet touches the plush carpet of our place, we crash. Maman inches towards the kitchen, finding the energy to start dinner. Papa speeds to their bedroom to take his nightly "rest", an excuse to get piss drunk without us witnessing it. Soleil plops down at the table, lazily flipping through the useless homework she's been assigned.<p>

Not me though. My exhaustion is from an entirely different reason. It's that good type of exhaustion, the one you get when you accomplished something great and the weakness in your body is just proof of how hard you worked at it. I did good today, even if I lost to Jewel. It was only my first day. I'm sure there have been worse incidents.

"How was training?" Maman asks, kissing my cheek as I pass by. "Is that blood on your mouth? _Mon Dieu_." Inspecting me, I swat her away.

"So much fun. Don't worry. I'm fine, I'm fine." I tell her. The knot has swelled up but it'll go down soon I'm sure of it. Bouncing up the stairs, I see Soleil staring, wondering how I could be so energetic at this hour of the day.

"You won your first fight?"

I snort for even doubting my abilities. "Of course I did. The girl didn't stand a chance." One lie wouldn't hurt. Besides, I pretty much let Jewel win anyway. Viewing my sister again, she really does seem ready to pass out, slumped over her books, eyes fluttering shut. Having to balance school and factory life is hard work.

Reaching the top, I look down at my older sister haughtily, hands on my hips. "Should have continued Training. Then you wouldn't be so tired."

The look on her face is priceless. Like she's considering the meaning of her life seeing her younger sister so happy while she's already burnt out.

"Radiance," Maman's tired eyes find me, hands trying to soothe out the headache from the constant fumes of the fragrances. "Be nice to your sister. Wash up. Dinner's in a few."

"You don't have to worry about that. The Victors fed me today. Twice," I say. Now it's Maman's turn to look taken aback. "You know, Madame Giroux isn't so bad once she takes her happy pills."

Soleil sets her face back to a blank expression. "So I assume you want to continue training?"

A smile forms on my face, the happiest one I've had in days. "Without question. Really, what else is there for me to do?"


	4. Orazio: Fantasy

**As a precaution, there is a sex scene at the end and in general, Orazio is quite crazy. This chapter isn't for the prudish. You have been warned.**

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><p><strong>Orazio Scordato, District Two: Fantasy<strong>

**Place in the 61****st**** Hunger Games: 17****th**** Place**

My blade swings forward to deliver the next blow. She goes into a backflip just in time to escape what would have been game over had she been a second slower. Enraged by the idea of losing, the move just motivates her more. Ruthlessly her weapon slams into my own, metal against metal clashing at the right moments. We're caught in a vicious dance to the death, bouncing and moving about the place, swallowed in a cloud of dust. One false move and we're done. Our weapons come so close to slicing off this limb or that head and already we've landed wound after wound on the other. The minutes drag on until she makes an easy mistake: her blade cuts across my side instead of my middle, leaving her wide open to attack. Naturally I counter with all my might and falter only when I realize I'll kill her if don't. Instead of impaling her, my sword decides to be generous and allow a nasty gash to rip open her arm.

The whistle blows. Our trainer, Vincenzo, smiles. He's pleased with our performance. Or rather, mine.

"Nice work Scordato. Zangari," he gives my sparring partner a glance, annoyed that she's even in his presence. "Try again." Vincenzo's never likes the girl trainees. Says physically, they're too weak to be real competition. They can get far, final four easily, but not win, and in the Hunger Games, if you're not sitting on that Victory Chair laughing away with Flickerman, you're dead. None of the girls like his blatant discrimination but they aren't stupid enough to let it show. Disrespecting a trainer has serious consequences, no matter the level of dissent. I've seen what they do to the disobedient. You learn quick to keep your mouth shut around here.

"You're weak," I tease my partner. She growls and in an instant, her knife soars through the air. It doesn't graze me. "Case in point."

Though I have the lesser injuries, Vincenzo tosses me a tube of medicine and heads for the exit of the sparring room. "Clean up your mess, Zangari. Training's over for today. Be up at seven sharp Scordato."

With that, he's gone and we're the only two left in the central tower of the Gamma House. Training ended at least an hour ago but we decided to stay longer for an extra bout. Going by the look of the sky through the ceiling windows, it's pretty late. Opening the medicine, she allows me to undress her and I apply the gel while we talk about the day's activities. The stuff is Capitol-issued, a top of the line product only we and the big city have access to. Probably in District One and Four too since they're Careers there. It smells and stings like a motherfucker but boy is it fast-acting. Squirt a few globs on you and your worse wounds are gone in two days top.

"Fuck Vincenzo. He never, ever has anything good to say about me," she sighs, wincing as the medicine soaks into her exposed flesh.

I chuckle at her frustration. My girl is too feisty for her own good sometimes. "Don't let old Vincy get to you. You know why the man is so harsh with the girls."

"Hard up for some pussy is what his problem is," she says and we both burst into laughter. That seems to calm her down. As we chat, I take in every inch of my girl's form. Her hair is curly, black as tar, stopping just pass her shoulders. My fingers find their way through the bush and I take in its sweet smell and thick texture, reveling in the excitement that shoots through my fingers. Curves and muscles in all the right places compliment her olive-toned body. Athletic yet delicate. Masculine yet feminine. Threatening yet inviting. Flawless. Simply beautiful. My hands envelope her like a sculptor would their prized sculpture, taking the time to see to it that every inch is explored yet not daring to push too hard in fear of ruining the masterpiece.

I toss her hair to the other side. Instead of treating her neck wounds, I kiss them. Lick them. Slurp up the blood. Moans escape her lips and it takes a kick to the shin to break me out of my trance.

A hand gently strokes my chest. "Not here, Orazio. Later."

Enobaria and I have known each other long before coming to the Gamma House. We were "adopted" by the headmaster at the same time. No one here has parents actually. The only trainees that do are the Victor's kids, like Domitia or Clarus. They recruit us from the overcrowded orphanages throughout Two because it's easier that way. No interference, no objections. Plenty orphans exist in District Two for countless reasons, so the caretakers are more than happy to cull the most misbehaving or undesirable ones and ship them off to become Careers. Some kids are simply selected at random. Because District Two is so big and so eager to manufacture Careers, three Houses are needed to train us: Alpha, Beta, and Gamma. The names signify the order of creation not ranks. Believe me, there's nothing 3rd Place about Gamma kids.

It sounds bad to send off children to become trained killers but compared to our alternatives, it's showing us mercy. Orphans have few opportunities once they hit eighteen. The privileged and trainees who didn't go into the Games claim Peacekeeper and military jobs. The rest of the population takes up weapon making in the factories, leaving the backbreaking stone quarries for the undesired and unwanted. Or odd jobs and "favors" around the district if you're a female. It should go without question why it's such an honor to be chosen.

Once you enter a House, there's no coming out. All outside contact is cut off, siblings included. This forces us to have nothing to hold on to except each other. The same age and from the same backgrounds, we establish pairs. Eat together, train together, relax together. Most are inseparable. It's common for there to be more than friendship between a pair, male and female, and that's what happened with me and Enobaria. Receiving our first day of training at the age of eight, we've gone through so many of the same experiences before and after leaving the orphanage that it just felt right to be with the girl. But we're more than just fuckbuddies. More than love actually. It's a need for one another. We function as one. I cannot, will not live without Enobaria, and she cannot without me. No one else matters and no one tests this bond…except Hadrian.

Hearing footsteps behind us, we snap around ready to strike against someone stupid enough to sneak up on us. Our knives just barely miss the foolish boy's head and he rolls to the left, aiming a bladed boomerang directly at us, his prized weapon.

"Nice to see you too Orazio," Hadrian speaks to me but his eyes addresses my girl's body, raping her with his stare. The blond is a stupid kid a year under us whose life mission is to irritate the mess out of everyone he comes in contact with. Everyone hates him. I can count on a sarcastic remark or "friendly" jab from him every single day. He's not as bad as he used to be though. After I broke his nose and jaw for stroking my girl's hair one day in the lockers, the message should have been pretty clear. You would think a person with an ounce of common sense would but he just keeps on going. Before I can punish him for disrespecting me, Enobaria shoves me to the side and does it for me. Her injured arm doesn't faze her one bit.

"Leave boy. I really don't have the patience to explain to Nerva why a pair of cock and balls is hanging from his door tomorrow morning." Stark naked in front of a guy twice her size, my girl doesn't let anyone dominate her.

She couldn't be more amazing.

Clearly humiliated and shot down yet again, Hadrian collects his manhood and leaves, pretending to lose interest. "I was coming to collect the arrows, bitch, not you. Besides, you psychotics freaks can have each other." The staring match doesn't break until the door slams close, a picture above crashing to the floor.

Hadrian isn't the only person to call us names. People say we're all types of things: crazy, insane, bloodthirsty. Just because we fight differently than others. By District Two standards, you must really be missing a few screws if your reputation is that bad. Trainers watch you, see who you bond with the most, then forces you to fight them. If you falter, you fight longer. The mentality is if you can fight to kill your loved one, what will a stranger's death be to you? We don't actually kill each other but we come pretty close to doing it. Enobaria and I just take the belief to heart. Maybe we aren't completely sane but so what? We like violence. We like blood. We're Careers. That's the way it's supposed to be. We don't train, hell, _volunteer_ to lose.

Mind you, we aren't crazy by choice. Life has a certain way of handing different sets of cards to people. Some get great hands, others horrible ones. Let's just say few people would be sane after watching two men hold shiny black objects to their parents' heads and wondering why parts of their brains are splashed across the wall. Everyone in Two is some sort of criminal, and apparently my parents owed some big-time "salesman" money and, well, the rest is history. Enobaria had it worst. Growing up her father was never right in the head. Always had anger issues and hallucinations. One day he couldn't shake a particular fit off and killed his wife in his madness. Walked right into their bedroom and stabbed her to death. My girl only escaped because she jumped from the second story of their house, sprained her ankle, and ran to the orphanage. The next morning she watched as vulture muttations ate away at the hanging corpse that used to be her father in the City Square.

His screams are still one of the worst nightmares she gets.

Walking up the flight of stairs, we arrive at Enobaria's bunk on the third floor. Every trainee is assigned a housing quarter. A bed, one couch, fridge, drawer, microwave, a tiny bathroom, one window, and a TV that works when it wants to. Not much but more than what we got at the orphanage. I have my own but I might as well claim Enobaria's since I'm never in mine. Munching on Vroom! Vroom! Bars, Enobaria throws something in the microwave and I wait for dinner, lounging naked on the worn, stained cloth couch.

"What'cha cooking for me, Eenie?" She absolutely hates that nickname. It's from our orphan years. A mean, decrepit-looking caretaker gave her the name after continuously butchering her real one. The woman stopped only when Enobaria nearly bit her finger off. Besides, Eenie just sounds ugly. Only I can live to finish saying the whole name, and I barely get by without a punch or two.

Always the sweetheart, she replies. "Nightlock pie fresh out the oven. Would you like a taste dear?" A chopping board and veggies appear in her hand, slicing the food with incredible speed. Enobaria and her knives.

"No thanks. Have you tried that kick-your-ass soup in the cabinet? It's made just for you." Our little quips are so second nature we don't notice when we do them anymore. I find the remote and flip through the channels. Propaganda, fashion show, propaganda, Panem history, art exhibit, propaganda. Stopping on the last channel, two brightly colored monsters fill the screen. Capitolites. They make me sick but we have no choice but to honor them, especially here in Two. We get the best treatment, Games wise.

"So Euphemia Trinket," instead of the usual Caesar Flickerman, some pink-tinted man is interviewing Games-related people, long grey hair flowing with his movements.

"Call me Effie, everyone does," the young woman beams. She can't be no older than twenty-three, light blonde wig adored with a blossoming silver flower too big for her head. Her floor-length dress matches the bright thing on her head, causing her to nearly blind the cameras. It's not a pretty sight at all.

"My apologies Effie," the interviewer smiles. "On a scale of 1 to Capitol, how excited are you to be District Twelve's new escort?"

The Effie woman looks like she's about to have a seizure. "Mega Capitol! You don't know how excited I am to be given this opportunity to participate in the greatest event in Panem's history. I am humbled, truly I am," she bobs her head happily.

Enobaria's cutting stops the moment she hears the grating Capitol accents. "What garbage are you watching?" She isn't afraid to voice her opinion on the ruling city, scowling every time the fat Capitolite man makes his yearly visit to inspect the Houses.

Now the pair is going on and on about Effie's appearance, raving at how it sparkly her dress is and demanding her makeup artist's number. "Lovely! As you know, District Twelve has a notorious losing streak. How would you alleviate this troubling situation?"

Sitting up straight, the woman's confident in her answer. "Manners. All they need is a little polishing. You know what they say about coal."

"With a little pressure, coal turns into diamonds!" they sing and I'm forced to turn off the TV.

"Nonsense." I take another bite of the energy and I'm on my feet, creeping silently towards Enobaria, who's too busy working away at the food. Before I know it, the knife is just inches from my throat. The silence is deafening, neither of us breaking the gaze. My face stays perfectly set. So does hers. I know just the thing to distract her.

"Senses still sharper than ever. Impressive," I say.

"You doubted me?" The blade only lowers when I crash my lips into hers. Wordlessly, her legs wrap around my waist and I take her right there in the kitchen, throwing the food and knife across the room. It's time to let out all our tension. We make love and roam around the entire bunk, finding our way on the counter, the bed, the bathtub, then back on the counter. I refuse to be gentle about it because Enobaria Zangari is anything but gentle. We have a game we like to play to enhance the thrill and excitement of it all. Seeing who can be the most aggressive, cause the most pain. We up the ante every time we play. I drive into her mercilessly, slapping her whenever she dares to moan. In response, her nails and teeth find their way into my skin, and boy can she _bite_.

"You're worthless. You disgust me," she shouts, not caring how loud we are.

I give it to her harder as punishment.

No matter what, I always win.

Items break. Books fall over. By the time we're done, the place is a mess. Cuddling under her sheets, the strong odor of sweat and microwaved food envelops the room. Too high on Vroom! Vroom! Bars and sex, we spend the rest of the night talking, laughing, and giggling over anything we can think of. It's times like these, my girl on my chest, happy and at peace, that makes me forget how hard we've had it. How awful life can be. But all good things must come to an end. Eventually our talk leads to the Games. Things always lead to the Hunger Games.

"Reaping's in three months. Remember our plan," says Enobaria, tracing her fingernails on my chest. The sensation is both comforting and arousing.

"I'm already signed up for the Trials," I tell her.

She sighs, nuzzling her face in my neck. "Good. Once we win, our life is set. No more of this hellhole."

Our plan is simple: I win the Games this year, she wins it next year. We thought of it years back. One day after an awful day of rockclimbing, we decided to volunteer and win back-to-back. I'd have to go in a year earlier than advised, at seventeen, but I'd just work hard to prove myself capable of winning. That way I could mentor her and see to it that my girl makes it back home. Alive.

"Every Capitolite will eat up a love story between us. Can you imagine the headlines?" I laugh.

She puts on the best Capitol accent, and she's pretty spot-on. "The Romance of Mentor and Tribute: Can Savages Find Love Too?"

I hate what they call us. Savages. Because we have the most Victors, because want to live we're called animals. The Capitol never ceases to amaze me. It's okay though. Those clowns can call us anything they want as long as I get to win. And win we will. Enobaria and I have trained too hard not to. Overconfidence has killed off too many Careers but I just know we got this. I'm not sure what we'll do after we become Victors. The thought hasn't crossed my mind much. We'll move to the Victor's Village of course, maybe become Gamma Trainers once the life of luxury becomes a little too easy. Will we get revenge on the ones that caused our lives to be this way? Probably not. I can take justice into my own hands easily if I wanted to, but what would be the point? Winning the Hunger Games is what matters most now. All that was in the past.

"Which mansion do you want to move into?" I voice my lighter thoughts to Enobaria.

She goes quiet, thinking for a minute. "The one right next to Vincenzo. Every day I can prove how wrong he was about me."

That sparks talk about Victor life. What our talents will be, the ugly outfits we'll have to wear in the Capitol, breaking in new Trainees. Marriage. Children even. We both just want one, a girl. I think Renata's pretty for a little curly-haired baby but she can't get Lucilla out of her head.

"Lucilla? That's horrible, reminds me of Drusilla, the smelly girl who likes to follow you everywhere," I tease.

"Please don't remind me of her," she scoffs and we chuckle at the mention of the fifteen year old that basically treats Enobaria as her idol. We entertain her presence to be nice, mainly since we suspect she isn't all the way there in the head. Kissing for a few minutes, I get ready to go at it again until Enobaria abruptly pauses on top of me. I stare into her black eyes. She has that look in them, that distant, blank stare. Something's wrong.

"What's up?" I ask her, stroking her soft skin. That usually gets her to calm down.

"Orazio," she starts, voice unsteady. "Are you sure you're ready for the Arena?"

"I would never lie to you Enobaria. Never," I pull her down into a kiss to show her I mean it.

"You'll return to me alive, won't you?" The uncertain sound in her voice scares me. Enobaria Zangari is not a vulnerable person. But now shoulders sunk, tears begging to break free, she looks like the scared little girl I met hiding in the corner first day at the orphanage. I hold her even closer now.

"What will you do to win?"

"Kill them. Kill them all. Because I love you."


	5. Domitia: Approval

**My apologizes for getting this up later than I had planned to. I've been going through some academic and personal problems as of late. Writing is hard when your mood is permanently down in the dumps. On a brighter note, I've already started work on Dmitri's one-shot, so let's hope his isn't too far off from being uploaded.**

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><p><strong> Domitia Veronesi, District Two: Approval<strong>

**Place in the 61****st**** Hunger Games: 4****th**** Place**

A brush strokes across my cheeks, dusting more foundation on top of layers and layers of the makeup already caked on my face. Purple eye shadow is about to applied to my eyes for the third time when a voice brings it to a halt. My stylist and I both look up angrily at the cause, but not too angrily. We know our place.

"Idiot!" my mother screams, snatching the brush away from my stylist with so much force the woman is thrown back stumbling in her heels. "I said a simple base. Is this what you call simple?" a hand brings my chin forward. "She looks like a clown. Do it again."

Arms folded, my stylist has had enough. "Hortensia, I am not doing her makeup over for the fourth time. There's only eight minutes left and we haven't even gotten Domitia into her gown. Now sit there and be quiet woman, please."

My mother looks dumbfounded at her blatant refusal to fulfill her demand yet she does what she's told, snapping her fingers at one of the helpers to fetch a chair. Hair dyed a flattering silver shade though the same age as her, Julia is the only person I know who could possibly talk back to my mother and live to tell about it. Not even my father speaks to her like that, and he's nothing to play with either. Julia had better be lucky she was Capitol or she would have had to face the wrath of the great Hortensia Veronesi, maiden name kept out of power.

To be quite honest, I was fed up with both of the women's antics. Julia should know my mother's personality; she's been her stylist for nineteen years now, since she won her own Games. Let her have her bitchfit and move on. Everyone knows the Veronesis and our temper. Though Julia is nothing to mess with either. The woman has been in and out of my house before I was born and she's easily the feistiest Capitolite I have ever met. I still remember the imprint on my mother's face from where Julia slapped her after a heated argument over a bracelet. Somehow, the two remain to be friends.

Looking at my mother, I can't help but smile at the woman I see. Commanding our prep team, it's amusing to see Capitol folk obeying her like subjects to their queen. In a way, she is a queen in her own right. Perched on her throne sipping on strawberry-dropped champagne (her third glass), her royal blue gown goes perfectly with her golden crown. Her Victory crown. The woman treasures the relic like she gave birth to it. At home, it's encased in an air-controlled glass box atop a custome-made marble column. I swear she loves it more than me sometimes. Since I've volunteered, she has insisted on wearing it as a form of good luck, and insisted on embarrassing me everywhere we go.

I love my mother. I know that. But being a Veronesi hasn't been the greatest thing to be growing up. My older brother and I were raised in the Gamma House among the other trainees since the day we could walk. Given no special treatment, handled just as roughly as the next one, if not more. They like to push Victor kids harder because they know how rigged the Hunger Games can be. The Capitol loves drama and what better way is there to bring it by having a Victor's little boy or girl's chances of following their parent's footsteps doubled or tripled? And the escort does have the ability to refuse volunteers if they so heavily desire the chosen tribute to play. It has happened before.

It was always assumed that at least one of us would go into the Arena, until my brother decided to upset the entire system and go AWOL. Disillusioned by the Career lifestyle, he begged for a sense of normalcy and abandoned us to join my father in Peacekeeper Academy three years into the Alpha House. It was the scandal of the decade back in Two and apparently in the Capitol as well. No one has ever just quit on being a Career. At least not in Two. At that point, I too had been influenced by my brother's rebellion and was less enthused to train with each passing day. But I saw the look of disappointment and _hurt_ in my mother's eyes when she realized what her son had done. She wasn't furious but heartbroken. I knew I couldn't do to her what he did so carelessly.

With my brother whisked off to District Eight, the entire responsibility of carrying the winning legacy fell on my shoulders. Five years later and look where I am now, backstage getting ready to persuade the Capitol on why I should live in three minutes or less. I hope he's happy with what he's done.

Squeezing into my dress, a white flowing gown reminiscent of a, in Julia's words, "Roman goddess", impractically high heels are strapped on my pedicured feet. I'm not sure which is harder: trying to recall the few etiquette classes I had back home and walk gracefully in these torture devices or maintain the extreme split designed to show off all of my leg. Why did I have to spend so much time in hair and makeup? District Two is known for how good we are in the Arena, not how good we are in bed. That's District One's angle. We don't need to proposition sex to gain sponsors.

Another mist of perfume applied on my neck, I'm rushed down to the lobby area. My mother takes this time to relay pointers and remind me of what to do, as if I haven't heard it a millions times over.

"Remember your interview angle: fierce, threatening, dominating. I didn't name you Domitia for nothing. Don't you dare stumble over your words or say the wrong answers. You're a Career and my daughter. Make me proud up there, you hear me?"

"Yes mother," is all I can say while I struggle to maintain my balance and make sense of everything. Opening the main doors, a wave of anxiety suddenly hits me and I falter. A shove from behind puts me back into gear. I look for my mother for some sort of comfort. Mouthing the words 'good luck', a brief smile passes her lips then she's gone.

Radiance leading the group and the Twelve boy finishing it out, the other tributes are already lined up. Making my way in, I stride to my spot like I was born in this outfit. Falling on my face in front of the others won't look good, especially if I am to lead the Alliance this year. Sandwiched between Valor and Orazio, no one says a word. Nothing would be overheard over the fanfare outside the City Circle anyway. Doors opening, a Capitolite throws a signal and we're off. The grandeur of it all hits you like a train, a kaleidoscope of chaos vomiting over your senses. I see their faces and I have to hide my disgust under the permanent stone mask I've set. Our names can be heard shouted throughout the crowd, mine a little more than others.

I make eye contact with one girl and scowl. Stop calling my name. You don't know me. You don't know any of us.

We make our way to the stage. Competing against the blaring music and rowdy audience, the silver-donned Caesar is having a hard time manning his show. Eventually he does and calls the first tribute up. Radiance struts towards the television king, kisses him on each cheek, and coyly casts her eyes down as the audience goes wild.

She's good.

As her interview goes on, it's clear the audience loves her. With every word, the Capitol oohs, ahhs, and gushes over the girl. Flickerman damn near fucks her on stage with the way he caresses her leg and gazes into her eyes. She has the advantage over all of us. First up, District One, and gorgeous. Impossibly tight dress and sky-high stilettos, it must have been easy to form an angle for her.

Even as she throws her breasts in front of the cameras, I can't hate her. Radiance is a decent girl. My ability to kill her hasn't been altered in the least bit, but out of all of my allies, she annoys me the least. And if I'm honest with myself, I like having her around. I never had a real friend before. I was never a very social person but life kept me from having normal connections outside the Gamma House. I was always caught up in training or impressing my mother to have anything but frequent acquaintances. And romance is another story entirely. I don't know if I'm wired like this, but Radiance catches my eye more than necessary. I…..don't know how all that stuff feels. Some girls do things in private back home, bonding so closely and being together so much. Nothing will sprout from these thoughts. But the attention and affection is nice.

Before I know it, Valor's sitting in the chair now. Shirt and pants equally as tight as his district partner, he exposes more about himself than I would ever care to know. His interview confirms my suspicion: he's been acting all along. Valor thinks he can get away with the typical District One act, the airheaded heartthrob just looking to have fun, but I see right through him. The boy is capable of killing us all.

"As the fourth member of the House of Veronesi to grace our stage, she has some big shoes to fill. Can she keep up the winning streak and become Victor #4 in her family?" Caesar's arm swings to our direction. "Give it up for the District Two female tribute, Domitia Veronesi!"

Only when I see Caesar motioning for me to join him does it register that I'm next. Swearing under my breath for getting distracted, I stomp my way to greet the man with a curt nod, remembering how to sit properly before plopping down in the chair. I'm so thankful I don't have to smile for the cameras because I'm not in the mood to do much of anything. With a haughty scowl, they're sold. Thank Panem my district and family's reputation does all the advertising for me.

Silver lips close from its laughter to form a toothy smile. "Looks just like her mother! Remember when she was just a tot?" the crowd coos at the memory of my younger self toddling beside my mother in interviews and photo shoots. I grew up in the spotlight. I remember the invasive interviews, the aggravating paparazzi. "How are you little Tia?"

These people think we're on a nickname basis just because they worship my family.

_I'm terrified Flickerman. And you?_

I cross my legs, appearing above it all. "Honored." Silence will be my weapon. Silence shows fear, or stoicism. They won't expect in a million years for me to be afraid. It's the perfect way to cover up how I'm truly feeling.

"As you should be," the middle-aged man nods his head passionately. His voice goes into another tone. "I'm so sorry to hear about your uncle's, Lucius Veronesi, untimely illness. May my thoughts be with you during your time of grief."

_I forgot he died._

Should I show emotion or indifference? I grab his manicured hand, which has found a place on my knee, in mock support. "Yes. His unfortunate passing has stayed with our family since he left us. But I know my win will make him so proud of his valiant niece." I check my face on one of the countless screens to see if I'm making the right expression. It's convincing enough. The act draws in support and condolences from the surrounding people. Caesar quickly turns the mood around with a brighter question.

"Well, being that you come from such a long line of Victors, how have your grandfather, uncle, and mother all contributed to your success?"

_Grandfather was a womanizing drunk too busy screwing Capitolites to care about his family. Uncle Lucius was a conniving crook who scammed the wrong guy and found himself dead in a dumpster. Mother demands that I be the carbon copy of her down to the taste buds on my tongue._

"In everything I do."

The interview continues like so until the topic of me volunteering comes up. Caesar always asks the Careers just why they did so. But he has hit a topic I don't want to cover at all.

"Both your parents must be proud to see their child, a volunteer at that, representing their district flawlessly. Though I'm curious; just what did they say to you before you left?"

I tense up. Instinctively, my eyes betray me and search for my mother in the stands. There she is, cascading curls, sparkling crown, face emotionless as an eyebrow is raised to question my slight hesitation.

_Answer him_, she is telling me.

Controlling my voice as best as possible, I give him the truth. "Don't embarrass us."

* * *

><p><em>They were the first to visit me, my family. Swinging the door open, my mother led the way and immediately starting the mentoring process. Not telling me how proud she was, what joy she had seeing me enter the Games. No, just orders on what I will and won't do from that moment on. My father and brother faded into the background while my mother criticized and chastised me on anything she could find wrong. <em>

"_This is serious Domitia. Don't embarrass us in the Arena."_

_Eventually they got tired of her and my father had to literally shove his wife to the side to get the woman to shut up._

"_Listen," he spoke. It was rare to see my father and Gaius twice a week. A luxury. Because of Mother's status, they had been allowed an extra day off for the Reapings. I tried to find some hint of sadness in his eyes but came up with nothing. He too wasn't going to shed any tears for me. He married a Veronesi. What was he feeling, I wondered, seeing his only daughter offer to go into an Arena to kill twenty-three other kids? Did he think of me a monster?  
><em>

"_You're smart. Very smart. The Victors at the Gamma House trained you well. You'll win Domitia. I love you." _

_My mother could say a thousand and one words and mean nothing yet my father could say five sentences and mean everything. How is it so?_

_He kissed me on the forehead. "Thank you," I whispered._

_Awkwardly shifting forward, Gaius gave me lackluster words of encouragement, noise that's right for the situation but has no real meaning behind them. He gained our mother's ability to talk all day about nothing at all. He'd long past Reaping age, and the Hunger Games had been a foreign concept to him since he dropped training. What could he do now except pretend we actually talked to each other more than once a month? Waving him off, Father hugged me once and I'm ushered with Mother and two Peacekeepers out the room._

* * *

><p>The television man laughs his famous laugh as if what I said was funny. "With that ten you scored, you sure won't. Tell me Domitia; what is your game plan once you get into the Arena? Traditional alliance with One and Four perhaps?"<p>

This time I don't have to lie. Giving him an annoyed glare, I flip my bang to the side. "What do you think Flickerman? Kill them in any means necessary."

_BUZZ!_

My time is up. Flickerman holds up my arm and I witness the standing ovation I receive for giving the half-assed performance of a lifetime, even while I glare at each and every person clapping and screaming my name. They love angry, psychotic Domitia. They adore it.

Visibly relaxing when I take my seat, I tune out the rest of the interviews. The true competition has already presented itself. The rest are logs in the fire, including the other half of my Alliance. Orazio is strong and can easily kill me, but he's too reckless and is truly, truly unstable. I only allowed him to join us to avoid his wrath at the Cornucopia and Enobaria's rage once I got home. And don't get me started on the imbeciles from Four. The fishing district must be running out of children to let Tweedledum and Tweedledee represent them in the Games. Trying her hardest to appear tough and adopting a laughable sneer, I'm torn between killing Penelope or Orazio first once the Alliance breaks and decide on her first. The sooner the short girl dies the better.

Besides Radiance, what was I thinking associating with these people? To think, I considered them enjoyable to be around, _looked forward_ to seeing them at Training?

The glimmering rhinestones on my shoes and brooch serve as nice distractions until my head shoots up at the sound of the fool from District Ten's name. It takes a moment for me to focus, the vapors from Valor and Orazio' colognes competing to suffocate me. This child is the same one that refused my offer to join the Career Alliance. Physically, he was the only non-Career to be of equal match to us. Eighteen, decent muscles that only the Seven boy shared. Yes, we were going to kill him in the bloodbath but he should have been honored that I considered him in the first place.

I smirk when Giovanni is greeted with far less enthusiasm than I was. Having sat through so many interviews, the audience is growing bored of the thing and the lower districts never put out anything worth paying attention to. Analyzing every detail of the boy down to the way the buttons on his shirt come undone in a strategically messy fashion, I summarize what his angle is: the likeable jerk. He answer Caesar's question in what's supposed to be that sarcastically funny way, lounging in his chair and shrugging his shoulders like he's home watching the interviews instead of being in them. I view the crowd to see how he's doing.

They're buying his act. Fickle Capitolites.

I scoff when yet again the two men laugh at one of Giovanni's idiotic jokes. Time just about up, the television man squeezes in one last question.

"So tell me: girlfriends, lovers, wives, mistresses? With your charm, the girls back home must be tripping over their feet to have a taste," says Caesar.

Giovanni laughs. Nothing could prepare me for what he says next. "A few, but the broad from One couldn't keep her hands off me. That scandalous night of passion yesterday, whew, wore me out man!"

_BUZZ!_

I'm the first to burst into laughter, unable to control myself. Who in their right mind would ever think that Radiance would lie on the same couch as a dirty cow herder, let alone have sex with him? Really now boy! You could have said me and it would have been more believable!

Then I hear their reactions.

Most are stunned, whispering to themselves to confirm if it's true. Some are too bewildered to do anything at all, looking around at each other than at us to make sure they heard right.

Radiance shoots from her seat, almost knocking the white chair over. "Never in my life would I fathom kissing that…that…," she stares at Giovanni in such disgust she looks close to vomiting. "Shit eater."

"Not what you said last night," Giovanni instantly retorts back, passing the girl and posing in his seat.

The crowd goes insane, hooting and hollering, finding the exchange absolutely hilarious. This time, I'm not laughing. Since when did District Ten get the upper hand in this? He is not supposed to be the crowd's favorite, we are. The Capitol is laughing at Radiance and essentially laughing at us. Slowly, I turn to tell off the boy but he's too engrossed in waving and laughing with the crowd to notice my death threats.

Who does this child think he is?

Flinging the heels across the room, I relax in my quarters after the Interviews end. Orazio and his team are in the dining room congratulating him and I'm too mentally preoccupied and uninterested to stand his presence. Hearing the door open, I go to yell at one of my prep team minions for disturbing me when I see it's my mother.

I spring to my feet, pacing around the room. "The nerve of District Ten! Can you believe him? He is just begging me to kill him," I wait for my mother to agree and add on something more vicious.

"Yes, you're right."

"Embarrassing us in front of Panem. Does he know who he's toying with?"

"He must not."

"Clearly, cause if he knew what I was capable of, he would've shut his mouth quick."

"Domitia, come sit down." Why is my mother's voice soft and neutral at a time like this? This is a tragedy we've got going on.

I sit opposite her on the bed. She motions for me to sit beside her and I do as such. Things go silent. I wait for my mother to begin speaking, but she's having a hard time finding the right words to say. Finally she does, taking my hand in hers.

"Have I…..been a good mother to you?" she asks, avoiding my eyes.

Is this Night of the Weird Questions?

I straighten up, formulating the right response. "Of course you have. I couldn't ask for a better mother."

"Stop with the automated answers and give me the truth girl."

Well this is new. My mother has always demanded the right answers from me, never the _true_ answers. Do I really want to give Hortensia Veronesi the truth? My mother's rage can know no limits, and the woman is strong. Not knowing what to say, it's my turn to stumble over my words, thinking this to be another strategy lesson in disguise.

"Well," I start off, voice shaky. "I mean, you can be very…direct in your parenting style. Not to say there's anything wrong with how you raised me, oh no Mother, of course not. You love me, yes you do. But I just wish you would be a little kinder in the way you show it?" My voice goes up into a question rather than a statement. Grabbing the bedsheets hard, I ready myself for her reaction and get the complete opposite of what I was expecting.

Hortensia Veronesi starts to sob.

What is that liquid coming out of her eyes? My mother was born with tear ducts? As she is overcome with emotion, I sit there stone still, stupefied at the sight in front of me. It's only when I'm pulled into a rough hug and buried inside her chest is when tears start to flow from my own eyes. We sit there on the edge of the bed, crying and apologizing to each other while Orazio and everyone else parties and celebrates a few feet outside the room.

"Damn you girl. You ruined my makeup," she chastises me when we finally conduct ourselves and we laugh, wiping away the running mascara from both of our eyes.

"I'm sorry," I apologize for the fifth time.

She shakes her head. "Don't be. I'm the one who forced you into doing all of this. Training, volunteering. I was so selfish."

"It's too late for such talk like that. The Games are tomorrow," I admit, smiling at her with tears in my eyes.

"Giving up already?"

"Over my dead body," I give her my most vicious sneer.

The rest of the night is spent in warm pajamas talking and reminiscing the past over hot cocoa and cream puffs. For once, the Games never pops up in the conversation. Mother tells me a hilarious story about her Victory Tour and we're in stitches for at least five minutes. Nerva, Orazio's mentor, peeks in at one point to see where we've been hiding and quickly leaves once he realizes he's interrupting. Things go back to normal and I bite into another cream puff as I listen to another one of Mother's stories.

I like this side of my mother. Her human side.

I could get used to this.


	6. Dmitri: Logic

**The first non-Career. Tell me how I do.**

**So I accidentally gave him Nace's last name and just now realized my mistake. Whoops. Fixed.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Dmitri Kodiak, District Three: Logic<strong>

**Place in the 61****st**** Hunger Games: 15****th**** Place**

There is a rule or law for every happening or occurrence in life. One that is common is the rule of logic. Apparent or hidden, a logical explanation exists to inform an individual of the certain reasoning or reasonings behind an event and either aims to soothe or exacerbate the situation.

Yet, in accordance to life, there is always an exception to a rule, even to logic. When it pertains to logic, the thought of something going totally against what you've known to be absolute knocks the wind out of you. In that moment, your entire sanity is compromised. Your mind is at a loss trying to come up with a sensible conclusion to the senseless, blocking out all other thoughts, deeming them unnecessary, useless.

Like right now.

My name has been selected to participate in The Hunger Games.

Twice.

This time, there's no one to save me.

It's certainly possible for such a thing to occur, but the odds are related to being hit by lightning, or a meteor crashing into your living room. As my district calls for the production of electronics and not the sciences, I can only guess that I'm somewhere in the ballpark of being correct. I would have calculated the chance of me being selected twice had I had a calculator, a writing utensil, and a sane state of mind, but none are here with me. Though unfortunately, using pure statistics wouldn't apply to my horrible predicament. Compared to the others, District Three is average in terms of size. Factor in "special circumstances" and the Capitol's adoration with drama and the proper results will seriously be distorted.

Feet scraping the ground, I inch my way to stand beside the small teenager, no _girl_, I must kill to get home. She strode from the fourteen-year-old section yet she looks like she could be ten. I don't know her name. Don't care to really. But when she gives a small smile from under her bangs and glossy eyes, I smile back. Support is support, and there's no use in being mean to the girl.

"Oh my! It's you again!" the escort squeals, clapping her hands gleefully. She is genuinely pleased to see me face certain death again. Sick bitch. "At least this time there will be no older brother to steal your thunder."

I do have brothers who could "steal my thunder", two to be exact, but neither are brave enough.

In a flash, we're swept from the stage and thrown into separate rooms inside the Justice Building. A Peacekeeper leaves me alone and the click of the lock causes me to lose all sense of composure and dignity. Logic is thrown out the window as I take an uncharacteristically emotional approach to my despair, added to the fact that being inside this luxurious room makes me think of an elaborate tomb.

Why me? What have I done to be called twice? Nothing about me is notable or spectacular: straggly black hair, rat-like face, unhealthily skinny, who would be dying to see me die in the Arena? And chosen twice! The likelihood of that! Certainly some business suit out there, high up in a Capitol government building had it out for me. I try to think back, recall anything I would've done to warrant this. I'm an unimpressive, stick-to-the-rules yesman. Guys like me do as we're told. We blend into the crowd, disappear on the radar.

I twist and tangle the toy in my hand to ease my nerves. It's a stupid little thing: a plush action figure stylized as one of those crime-fighting characters from the history books. Push the tiny voicebox inside its chest and it recites three or four pre-set messages. Something went wrong in the wiring and now its voice is warped. Alexei and I work in the big toy factory on the edge of our sector. It's the only way I'm able to have this. Who would dare waste their money on such luxuries in Three? Shadix used to work with us before he was murdered. It's not a bad place to slave your days away. Get breaks. Days off even. Every year before the Reapings, we're allowed to salvage through the defective toys to pick out just one. A gift I guess, to soothe the possibility of our lives ending the next day. I always thought Reaping presents were for the weak-minded and gave them to the poorer kids. But now, repeatedly pressing the action figure to hear recorded words of encouragement gives me hope.

This was Shadix's token. Now it will be mine.

I use logic to ground myself and recite factual information to keep from losing it. I'm fifteen. My favorite color is yellow. Peas make me nauseous. So does the smell of tomatoes. Redheads are my weakness. I've never had a girlfriend before. I want to go back to the factory. Making toys wasn't a bad living.

Someone's coming. From the doors, I hear footsteps. Multiple footsteps. Most likely my family. I brace myself for their tear-stained arrival and am greeted with a much less welcomed sight. My teacher walks in first, followed by kids from my class. None look happy to see me. Most look like it's a bother being in the same room with me. Others look petrified, as if simply standing in the Justice Building will cause them to go to the Capitol and me to the safe confinement of my apartment. It takes a clearing of my teacher's throat for any of them to react, and then they still falter for a brief second.

They form a line. Each one gives out halfhearted goodbyes. A few try to throw in a condolence or two, and I appreciate the handful for at least pretending to care. Not really knowing what to say or do myself, I mostly nod and thank them for coming. In reality, I'm rather ticked off. About 97% of these people I have never spoken two words to in my life. I can't recall any of their names and I'm sure they only learned of mine when it was called onstage. I don't do friends. I'm a keep-to-myself kind of guy. Go to school, do my work, leave. These people are taking up time with my family, people who actually matter to my life, to give forced recognition of my sorrow.

My teacher, a fat woman with graying hair, drags on and on about how sorry she is that I'm going into the Games while I have to fight the urge to scream at her to just leave the damn room. I've never been so happy to see a Peacekeeper when he escorts them all out. Only a nanosecond of silence is granted to me before the door swings open again. I'm almost tempted to yell for my class to return when I see who it is.

"Dmitri!" Armin dashes in and throws himself on top of me, burrowing and nuzzling his face into my neck. If I wasn't fast enough both of us would have been on the floor. He probably would've liked that.

"Armin, get off," I have to detach the wailing blond from his clamp on my body. Mouth open, he looks outraged at my refusal to let him wallow in his grief. _His_ grief, not mine.

"But you're going into the Games Dmitri. Aren't you devastated?" he tells me, rubbing my arm for support. I pull back. He starts again.

Hell yeah I'm devastated. I'm terrified for my life! I'm going up against twenty-three other kids, six of them damn near trained _assassins_. I don't tell him any of this of course. Slouching in the plush chair, I try to sound nonchalant. "It is what it is."

He's hurt by my indifference. "Well, I'll miss you."

"Yeah," I nod. Eyes peering into mine, he's expecting more. After a long sigh, I begin. "Armin, you have been a great friend, my only friend. I've known you for what, two years now? I'm gonna miss your," I try to think of something off the top of my head. "Fashion."

Both of us looking down at what he's wearing, he's probably thinking the same thing I am. What fashion? Those dingy hand-me-downs? Armin can't afford nice clothes. He and his two younger brothers can barely afford shoes that aren't falling apart, let alone quality items. The kid's still lost in my words and makes no comment on it, so I continue.

"Guys like you will find happiness. You'll move on, find someone right for you. One day, I'll just be a distant memory," I put on the sympathetic tone I borrow when dealing with emotional situations like such. Inside, however, all I can think is how ridiculous this is. _Me_ comforting _him_! Like he's the one going to die.

We stare at each other, me waiting on him to leave, him waiting on me to say those infamous three words. A year younger than me, Armin is hopelessly, pathetically in love with me. What sparked the flame was just one night, one cold night where I agreed to stay over at his place to get him to shut up about me never coming over. I was freezing in his bed and the only thing I could think to do was to huddle with him for warmth. Ever since that night seven months ago, he swears we're meant to be. At first I tolerated it, thinking it to be a silly phase and not wanting to jeopardize our friendship. Yet after repeatedly stating I'm not of his sexual orientation, he persisted on and I had enough. This is the first time I've talked to him in weeks.

Pummeling into me, the waterworks start again. I go to ease away, then realize something. This is the last time Armin will see me alive. Let him cherish this moment, drink in every single memory of me. The guy does deserve it, no matter how futile his obsession with me is. Standing still, my hands find their way in his blond hair and I stroke it, letting him wet my t-shirt with his tears. See, even I can show affection. Sometimes.

At the sight of two teenaged boys locked in an embrace, the Peacekeeper glares disgustingly and takes Armin away. He mouths something but I don't really care to decipher his lip movements. Right now, all I can focus on is who's to come next: my family.

They will be much of a challenge. It was difficult saying goodbye to Shadix. It's going to be impossible to say it to them. But I must be strong, for them and for myself.

I can already predict everyone's reactions: Mom will be devastated but unrealistically optimistic. Dad will cut the bullshit and get down to business, giving me tips that won't work. Waco will be unnecessarily hysterical and demand everyone's attention. Alexei will look bored and ready to be somewhere else. Paw Paw…Paw Paw is a mystery. Who knows how he'll react.

As if on cue, they fly inside and begin their lines.

"Dmitri, sweetheart. Everything's going to be okay dear, you hear me? You'll make it out just fine." Cupping my face in her hands and rubbing my hair, it sounds more like she's telling herself this more than me. Hair a mess, face wet with tears, she certainly needs it.

_I didn't fall down and scrap my knee Mom. I'm going into the Hunger Games. No sweet words will soothe this boo-boo._ "Okay," I whisper, not trusting myself to say anymore. The lump in my throat only gets bigger every second I watch my mother cry so I turn my attention to Dad. Placing his hands on my shoulders, he's much more masculine in his approach to comfort me. I appreciate the effort not to break down like he's dying to.

"Listen to me son. Go to the Cornucopia, grab the nearest weapon and run as fast as you possibly can. Don't worry about food and water. It will be plentiful in the Arena and weapons are more expensive for sponsors than a granola bar."

_You told Shadix the same thing and look where he is now._ "Understood," I nod my head. Dad goes to comfort Mom, letting a few tears fall out of his eyes. My parents, the thin, frail, tiny adults they are. Soft-spoken, would never hurt a fly. What do they know about fighting out in the wild? We live in District Three, the land of grey, stretching for miles with not a tree in sight. Sure, I could outstarve the others but that's in the miracle I live past the bloodbath. I smile and dismiss Mom and Dad's good-natured words of advice. Factory workers know nothing about the Hunger Games. It's foolish, pointless acts of desperation.

"Oh Dmitri! Dmitri, Dmitri, Dmitri!" My face is shoved into someone's chest. A taller person's. It can't be Dad and Paw Paw is too fragile for that.

Waco.

"It should have been me! I should be going into the Arena!" Waco wails. I hear someone comfort him and he refuses the gesture. "No. Let me take on the shame." He starts shaking me and it's all I can do to not regurgitate my breakfast. "Say something Dmitri! Anything!"

"I would if I could breathe Waco," my muffled voice emits from his large chest. What seems like several minutes until his histrionics end, I pull myself up off my brother. He can confess his sorrow and thrash around in despair all he wants but eyes never lie, and in those coffee brown eyes I see his true emotion.

Relief.

Me being reaped is too bad, but brothers or not, he's looking out for his own self. This was his last year, forever safe from the Reapings now. Better me than him I guess. Coward. Why am I surprised? Waco has always been a selfish individual. Towering over us, his height is the only thing he's been gifted with. Being the oldest of us all, the dim-witted boy sought to it that he got it his way and his way only. One time, Shadix had to take on double shifts for a week straight since he apparently hurt his foot too badly to work. Waco was strolling around the district the very next day.

At this point, I'm too stressed to feign interest in my older brother's melodramatics. "I have a better chance of winning this thing than you do Waco, and that's saying something."

"But I should of volunteered," he whimpers, holding his hand over his heart.

It comes out quicker than I can control it. "Yeah but you didn't."

Snapping their heads in my direction, this gets everyone's attention. You could hear a speck of dust float to the floor with how quiet it is. No one expected scrawny, quiet, goody-two-shoes Dmitri to say something so brutally honest, and to his own brother at that.

"What?" I question my family, challenging anyone to say something. "Waco didn't volunteer for me because he didn't have the balls to. Not like Shadix did."

Mom cries louder. Dad disciplines me with words I don't hear. Waco looks horrified at both the mention of his uselessness and our dead brother. Alexei avoids everyone's eyes and searches the room to distract himself. Paw Paw is the only one not to react, staring deeply as he studies my outburst from his chair.

The words start spilling out. "When did Shadix become a bad word, huh? When? I can't say it without someone telling me to stop or changing the subject. He should be remembered, not forgotten. I want my brother back. I want Shadix to come back home." I'm sobbing in my chair before I can finish my rant, cowering away from everything around me. This is not like me. This is not like me at all. I don't cry.

Two years ago, my older brother volunteered to take my spot in the Games. Till this day I can't understand why he did it. We weren't close. I loved him of course, but we only had simple conversation here and there in passing. I've never been close with any of my family members actually, both from circumstance and personal choice. Mom and Dad were too busy making sure we don't starve to death, Waco too busy being a waste of space, Shadix working hard at the toy factory, me keeping to myself, Alexei too busy breaking rules and breaking hearts, and Paw Paw's failing health bedriddening him most of the time. But Shadix did it and for that I owe him everything.

We watched as he was slaughtered by the District Eleven girl third day in, ambushed and stabbed to death in front of our eyes. Shadix never stood a chance. We were proud of him for making it that far. My older brother was a lot like me: plain, even-tempered, run-of-the-mill. Waco was older but not even then would he take my place. Alexei actually had the greatest chance of coming out the victor out of all of us. Smart, attractive, in shape, the brown-haired boy would've made the ideal tribute but who would let the youngest go in? We weren't _that_ bad of brothers.

Still wrapped in a ball wracked with emotion, I can't stop thinking about how stupid my brother's sacrifice was. I was going to be picked no matter who volunteered. Now my family will have to grieve two dead sons for no reason at all. I can't make sense of this. I can't apply logic to this and that frustrates me.

Surrounding me, people take turns in distracting me from the truth.

"There's still hope dear. Don't give up just yet."

"You must be strong son. Don't let them see you like this."

"I know you can do it Dmitri. We Kodiaks have that fighting spirit."

"Just keeping trying bro. That's all you can do at this point."

Shooting up, I've had enough of their words. "Stop deluding yourselves! I'm not coming back alive okay?" I shout, causing my family to simultaneously leap backwards. Silence. They stare at me then at each other, beckoning the other person to do something. What can they say to that? I know it's the truth, they know it's the truth. No point in beating around the bush. I'm not particularly smart, good-looking, strong or charismatic. I'm just a teenager being thrown in with the lions, told to survive with what little skills I possess.

A laugh comes from the corner of the room. It's a haggard, strangled sound. Our heads turn in unison, wondering who could be happy at a time like this. It's Paw Paw, cackling in the corner like a madman. With the help of Mom, his daughter, he hops his way to where I'm sitting, shaking his head and smiling like he's listening to a joke only he can hear. Paw Paw is strange, to say the least. The old, balding man doesn't say much, preferring to observe his surroundings and keep quiet. When his gummy mouth does open, nonsensical sentences or inappropriate language usually follows. We tolerate him because he's our Paw Paw, plus where else would he go? There's no special care for the elderly in Three. You either rely on your children or you're on the streets. We fear that he's slowly losing his mind since each year he just gets worse and worse with his oddities. None of us are experts on things of that sort and we couldn't fork up the cash to pay someone who was even if we wanted to, so we make the best of it.

"Sasha honey," he calls for Mom, searching for her even though she's right beside him. "Didn't this one already go into the Arena?" Inspecting me with his wrinkled face, he's thoroughly confused as to how I'm here. Paw Paw has always gotten me and Shadix mixed up. Us so close in age and appearance, I never held it against him but since he's dead now, I'd rather he realize we're two different people. At least give me that much before I died.

Mom shushes him but he continues. "Shaddy," his nickname for my brother. "Don't let them spears and pointy creatures get ya boy. Pretty things be a'carrying them around, toting them on the side but they're some real evil, evil that comes from the bowels boy, the bowels. Ya understand me Shaddy? I've got something important to tell you, yes I do, yes I do."

"Please Father, just be quiet," Mom rubs her forehead, drained from the day's events. Before I can respond, Peacekeepers, two of them this time, march towards us. One pushes my family out the door and the other, a towering female, drags me by the arm the opposite direction of the others. I barely get a glance back before I'm ushered to the train. My token plops to the ground and I'm given no time to pick it up. Visitation is over. It's time for the Games to begin.

Standing awkwardly with my district partner by my side, we're forced to pose in front of the train's main doors, flash after blinding flash capturing our every move. Mock happiness would be the preferred option, but that requires energy that's long gone from both my body and mind. I settle with looking attentive and alert.

"Did your family help you out any?" I hear the girl to my right speak, voice barely audible over the commotion from the photographers demanding we look this way and that way. She has a nice voice. Could be considered pretty even, given we were under different circumstances.

"Not really," I say. "Kinda just made things worst."

A hand brushes mine for support. "Mine too."


	7. Wanda: Comfort

**Warning: Detailed self-injury and thoughts of suicide in this chapter. Skip if the matter is too intense or personal to read.**

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><p><strong>Wanda Oscicmann, District Three: Comfort<strong>

**Place in the 61****st**** Hunger Games: 24****th**** Place**

_SCRAP!_

_munch. munch. munch._

_SCRAP!_

_munch. munch. munch._

"How was Training?"

"Good."

_SCRAP!_

_munch. munch._

She turns to the boy forced to go through this hell with me, shiny black hair swinging with her movements. "And yours?"

Shrug. It's an acceptable answer.

_SCRAP!_

_munch. munch. munch._

"Did you learn anything in particular?"

Kelso slams his fist on the table. The sound reverberates throughout the quiet room, shooting us alert. If any of us felt sleepy before we surely weren't now. "What did I say about talking to the tributes, girlie?"

Head cast down in shame, the woman peeps out an apology. It goes silent again.

To state the obvious, tonight's dinner is awful. The food is not the problem. Pounds and pounds of decadent, luxurious gourmets to dip and dabble, sip and sample to our liking served with a snap of a finger. From fruits to fishes to some foamy soup stuff, what's not to love about that? The people around me, however, leave much to be desired.

Our mentors are...interesting. Wiress, the pale, twenty-something year old waif who has the attention span of a goldfish and Kelso, the red-faced, frowning old man who is eternally pissed off for no good reason. How are these people honestly supposed to attract sponsors and save us in the Arena? No one will want to listen to what these two rejects have to say. I'm getting tired of associating with them and it's only day two. If they can't hold my interest, how in the world are they going to fare with a brainless Capitolite? A two-minute conversation with Wiress would be a miracle and rubbing sandpaper on your crotch would be more enjoyable than interacting with Kelso.

Why did we have to get the unwanted pair this year? Beetee and Nanette are way better. They're smart and know how to conduct themselves. The public likes them. Best of all, their tributes make it far into the Games. A boy made it to the final five six years back under Beetee's guidance. I used to feel sorry for Wiress, defending the absent-minded victor against the mean names others around town would call her. Until I relied on her to save me in the Arena. My life in kooky Wiress's hands. Praise Panem if I survive the bloodbath.

I can tolerate Wiress but Kelso is just unacceptable. Bearded and never without his hat, the way he goes about treating others is infuriating. I could care less how much age and experience the man has over Wiress. Disliking her is understandable. But treating my mentor like an unruly child with every word she speaks is flatout disrespectful. And if he scowls at me one more time he'll find my little foot shoved somewhere he'd rather it not be.

No Wiress, I will not discuss training with you. No Wiress, I will not tell you what happened there. No Wiress, I will not let you know how my asthma flared up and I humiliated myself in front of all my competition. You can't do anything to solve my problems and even if you could, you would fail miserably at each and every one you tried to fix. Both of you would.

All this stays trapped in my mind while I shovel food in my mouth under the pretense that I'm daydreaming. No one questions me. They're either more dense than I thought or don't care. I'm not sure which is worst.

To distract myself and create some noise in the painfully mute room, I grab my third plate from the buffet behind us. I'm full but I'm not stopping until I hurl up every last grain of rice and kernel of corn, just because I can. Starving in the districts then being sent to die. Ha! I deserve much more than a delicious meal. Why Dmitri is being modest is beyond me; with our days numbered, why not go all out before it boils down to being slaughtered over a pack of crackers?

Plopping a whole Cornish hen, a generous dollop of sweet potato mash, and two helpings of cheesecake on the elaborately engraved plate, I devour the food, testing a reaction from either of my mentors. When that doesn't do it, I drop my silverware and attack the stuff with my bare hands. Not even a glance from Kelso. I know the escorts and stylists would have already been rushed to the hospital if they saw me like this. They were thankfully merciful and left to party hours before to spare us from blasting our brains out. Catching my partner's eye, Dmitri looks on disapprovingly and I stick my food-crusted tongue out at him, egging him to have some fun. He needs to loosen up. Doesn't he know he's going to die?

Growing irritated by the silence, I swipe of an orange and leave.

"Aren't you going to excuse yourself, Wanda?" I hear Wiress's flighty voice. I don't respond.

Fuck manners.

Not bothering to change out of my dirty sweats, I dive headfirst into the sea of pillows and immediately regret it. My body hurts all over, right down to my fingertips. I'm absolutely exhausted and in a whole new way. The exhaustion I know is staring at your plate hoping against hope more food will magically appear or getting blisters from standing for hours on end and having to walk the pitch black streets hand-in-hand with an equally tired, equally weak friend. But this? I'm not used to this. The factories don't call for climbing trees, being submerged in water, or dodging knives and arrows until the sky goes black. How the Careers do it is beyond me.

Slowly I turn on my back, wincing at my screaming muscles. I can already imagine how awful I'm gonna feel tomorrow. Throwing the orange in the air and missing ever catch, my thoughts gravitate towards the darker side of my mind. Why train us? Why give us the small hope that we can survive? I mean just that too: survive, not win. Winning is out of the question. Going on pure logic and common sense, a week of running and rolling around can't compare to years of experience. I'll need months of daily practice to contend with the Careers. And look at me; what does my pathetic fourteen-year-old self have to offer? An easy kill? Sponsor points for the other tributes? The only other person I could maybe defeat is the redhead from Six and she has more fight in her than I could ever wish for.

Drifting into more depressing areas, I think back on past Games. One in particular that's haunted me was the 27st Games. I obviously wasn't alive at the time but I remember the reruns clear as day. At the start of the Games, a Career was waiting on her plate ready to kill when an enormous reptilian mutt leaped from the waters and decided to take matters into its own hands. Or rather, teeth. She didn't see it coming. The other tributes had to watch in horror as the crocodile destroyed the screaming girl's body, now a bloody mass of muscle and flesh. That was a brutal year.

Will I be that girl, the one replayed over and over to remind people of the brutality of the Games? And she was a Career, District Two at that. I'm destined to be subjected to some awful trap once the Games need some spicing up. With the reality of the situation just days away, is it better to die in the bloodbath or later on? Dying first means instant death, zero chance of winning, game over. Dying later on means that I'll be in constant fear of my life until the very end, whatever awful end that will be. I shouldn't disappoint my family by losing the first day in but either way, I won't come out of this alive. At least if I'm killed at the Cornucopia, I won't have any blood on my hands. I won't suffer as much.

Look at me. First day of training and I'm fantasizing on what way I want to go. Victors don't think like this. Liquid forming in my eyes, I rub them out as hard as I can. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

Launching the orange at the sparkling music box across the bed, it shatters the wooden construction into pieces, silencing the soft music emitting from it. I need a better outlet, something to ease the pain and make my now short life bearable. No one here can help me. Wiress and Kelso are useless and Dmitri and I agreed to only make contact when it's absolutely necessary. That way when the time comes, our deaths will be easier on the other. I came up with the plan and will stick to it till my cannon goes off.

Frustrated by my frustration, I spring from out of the bed set on a plan. I know exactly what I need to relieve all this stress. Finding the perfect item is what's going to be the challenge. Rummaging through every crack and crevice, I'm determined to find it. Not in the dresser, not in the end tables. I search the bathroom twice. Nothing except for an inhaler. Bravo to Wiress for remembering my request. I still don't know how it's going to work in the Arena, if they even allow me to bring it in. The medicine cabinet slams shut and I stomp my way back to my bed. This stupid room is so unnecessarily big yet has nothing that can do the job!

It's when I plop down in defeat that I spot the tiny hand mirror I threw on the floor during my rampage. Stepping over a few items, I go to check it out. Hm, small, sharp, and has _glass_. Slamming it on the bedpost, I wait for someone to come at the sound of the crack. If they didn't come when I broke the music box, why would they now? Still, I move frantically, hiding the bigger glass shards in my pocket and flinging the rest in the wastebasket. Inspecting my arm, I find the perfect spot right above the elbow. Shakily, I pick out a nice-sized piece and bring it to exposed ara. Looking around for any intruders, I turn my back to the door to begin the process. This excitement is too much to bear. I close my eyes.

The glass rakes across my skin once. Not hard enough. Let's try again. I dig deeper and this time I'm successful. Pebbles of blood swim out of the small wound and quickly, I dap it on the dark bedsheets.

The results are instant. My sadness is gone. My head is clear. I can breathe now. Finally, I can _breathe_. Just two cuts aren't enough. I need more.

Another swipe at my skin, this time more eagerly. Reveling in the tiny stream of red, I bring it to my mouth to taste. Usually I don't do drink the blood but, desperate times call for desperate measures. I actually don't do any of this except when life gets really bad. One of my co-workers got me hooked to this. She called it "cutting". Told me to cut little bits at a time and not go overboard or I'd attract attention from my parents. Said all the girls were doing it to relieve tension, that no one got hurt. I was disgusted and told her how crazy she sounded, that there's no way it worked. Days later, Daddy came down with some type of cough that had him bedridden for a week straight. Without the extra income, things got hard, _real_ hard. The stress was too much to bear and admittedly, the cutting idea had been tossing around in my head ever since the girl told me about it. One night after an exhausting shift, I retreated to my closet-sized room, grabbed the sharpest thing I could find and had at it.

The rest is history. This makes what, cut #11 or #12?

I snuggle inside the soft pillows, letting all the frustration wash away. I'm not proud of this, not all at, but it's the only thing that works. Most of the others do it way more often than me and I stop at my arms. Girls at the factory like to talk about their cutting marathons and compare their marks, or "trophies" as they're nicknamed. A few even have cutting parties, where a group of them take refuge in their bedroom and go at it for hours. I've seen far worse than the ones I've got.

I ready the blade for one more round. Searching for the best spot, my eyes insist on my wrist. As quickly as I shake the idea away, it comes back. I've never tried cutting there before. I heard if you do it too deep, you can bleed to death. That's what happened to one girl's cousin apparently. But isn't that what I want? I've been dying to find the permanent solution to my pain and misery. And really, what can the Capitol do if I end it all here? Nothing. I can win the Games my own terms. Fuck the Capitol! I've already said goodbye to Mom, Daddy, and Diggie. Just one swipe, one good swipe can make this all go away…

"Wanda! What are you….."

Someone's here. Hurriedly, I try to discard the evidence. From the corner of my eye, I see a figure closing in.

"Leave me alone!" A shard goes flying towards the target. It dodges it with the grace only a Hunger Games victor would possess. Wiress.

The harder I try against it, the more my voice trembles. "Don't know how to knock?" Seeing my arm, her mouth forms a sympathetic 'O'. That only makes me feel worse about the whole situation. Pulling me into an embrace, I try my hardest to push away. When that doesn't work, the punches come out. Either the willowy woman is stronger than she looks or I'm just that weak.

"Let me go! Let me go!" Why do I sound so weak, so _pathetic_? I do not want nor do I need this woman's help. Yet my struggle gets weaker and weaker and my face wetter and wetter. Shushing me silent, I throw one last hit before I give in. My tears are soaking her dress, a pretty white gown embellished with flowers, but she doesn't seem to notice.

"There, there child you're too…" Her focus is lost and I stare up through glossy lens to see what's gotten her attention. Wiress is staring off into space, seemingly trying to find the words to say. One of her usual episodes. "Pretty to be doing such ugly things to yourself," she says when she finally comes to.

Sniffling, I go to pull away again but no such luck. My body, slack and needy, simply won't allow it. Why do I yearn for this woman's comforting hands? I don't know Wiress and she doesn't know me, so why am I reminded of my mother at this very moment? "Don't lie to me. I'm nothing special."

Somewhat of a chuckle comes out of her mouth. "I wasn't either and you see how they took to my post-Games appearance."

It's true; Wiress was near death when she won almost a decade ago, so emaciated and starved from lack of sponsors that most people thought she wouldn't live to be crowned victor. Instead of being horrified, the Capitolites were inspired. Falling in love with the teenager's gaunt features, the malnourished look took the big city by storm. Anybody who was anybody flaunted their exposed rib cages, sunken cheeks, and bony limbs. Wiress had set off a fashion trend and gained the Capitol's favor just by outlasting the other tributes.

"No offense but I don't think I want to do what you did." This brings out a laugh from both of us. Nothing's funny about what I said really. I'm implying that I'd rather die than hope to win the way my mentor did. Wiress was smart and stealthy, but she got lucky in the end. I know I don't possess half of the skills she has. Still, we find humor in the situation, maybe because we both desperately need something to ease our anxiety.

The raven-haired woman wipes my tears away. A smile is planted on my face to convince her that I'm fine. She doesn't believe me but she doesn't question me. Good. At least give me the dignity to go without being badgered about things I don't want to share.

As if reading my mind, she responds. "I understand. We're all hiding…a little bit of misery behind our pretty little masks."

The knowing look in her eyes gives me a glimpse of what the Arena Wiress was like. Smart. Sneaky. Intuitive too. I see how the woman lasted so long in her Games, going solo and killing the others with her traps.

"What did I say about talking to the tributes, girlie?" Kelso appears by the door, face stern as he repeats his sentiments from earlier. This time, his tone is much softer and, dare I say it, calmer. And is that a hint of concern I detect? "I tell you time and time again Wiress: don't get too close to them."

"Oh shut it, you bitter old thing," Wiress stands up for herself, teasing the man good-naturedly. I like seeing her with some ferocity, however small it may be. She still has some fight left in her. From the corner I see Dmitri peek his head in, curious as to what's going on.

Casually sipping from the round glass, Kelso is as tactless as they come. "Suit yourself. When she's gone, don't come to me for sympathy." Tipping his hat off, he bids both us goodnight as if he didn't just confirm my death and leaves, taking Dmitri with him.

Wiress waves him off and smiles for my sake. I can tell his words have affected her. "Don't listen to him. Kelso's a sourpuss."

The rest of the night takes a turn for the better. Wiress and I chat and converse while she combs and brushes my knotted, fussy black hair. Originally I wanted her to leave along with the others but I eventually ended up valuing her company, then wanting it. In the process, I get to know my mentor in ways I never thought I'd care to. Questions ranging from the trivial to the serious are asked and answered, and the same goes for her. She doesn't mind that she's doing most of the talking, respecting my wish to listen rather than speak most of the time. This is not what I imagined my time in the Capitol would be like and I still see Wiress as a strange woman, but it's soothing having conversation with the victor.

Somehow the topic of boys comes up and I contemplate asking the question that's always been on my mind.

"Are you and Beetee, um, you know, dating each other?" My question does hold some merit. The pair is practically glued to the hip, rarely seen without the other, in front of the cameras and behind them. During interviews, Beetee always finishes her sentences and on more than one occasion I've seen them hold hands and embrace. There's a definite connection between the two.

Her brushing stops. For a second, I think she's angry at me. Turning around to apologize, I see that she's not mad at all. She's embarrassed.

Face redder than a tomato, Wiress stumbles to find the words to say even more than usual. "Oh goodness no Wanda. Beetee….and I are just close companions. I have…a husband. Chester is his name. We've been married for years now."

Wiress is not blushing because she feels something other than friendship for her close friend and fellow victor. I realize that she simply doesn't discuss things of that sort, especially with a tribute. I imagine the introverted woman not even having thoughts of such a romantic or sexual manner. Now that I think about it, picturing Wiress as a wife and performing marital duties throws me for a loop. My mind dares to envision more intimate scenarios but I quickly wash them away.

Ew.

"I apologize. I shouldn't have asked you that."

"It's okay, dear," she pats my shoulder. "Besides, Beetee is too submissive to be my husband. He'd let me run all over him."

We giggle at the small jab towards the older man and I picture a bossy Wiress barking orders to an obedient Beetee, dog collar and leash on his neck and everything, causing me to laugh harder. To let out a genuine laugh. The feeling is nice.

"Wiress?"

"Yes?"

"Do you," my voice quivers and I mentally kick myself at the realization. "Do you think I'll win?"

Her eyes cast down and stare off at the broken music box still laid out on the carpet, purposely avoiding my eyes when she answers me. "Anything's possible."

She doesn't believe her words. I appreciate her for not straight up lying to me. She's honest, plays it safe. Anything is possible and strange things have happened in the Arena, but the odds of me up against twenty-three other kids are not in my favor. No amount of sponsors or Gamemaker traps can change that.

"Okay," I swallow the knot of fear clogged inside my throat. It's a hard reality to accept, but I have no other choice.

Finishing up my hair, Wiress yawns and declares it's bedtime for the both of us. Before she leaves, she kisses me on the forehead once, an act of kindness I wasn't prepared for. Studying her, the look of sorrow on my mentor's face is clear.

"Just try to live…every day like it's your last Wanda. That's all you can do at this point."

The tears thought long gone are coming back. One makes their way through, sliding down my cheek as I silently nod my head in understanding. Such a crybaby.

"I will. The clock is ticking," More tears break their way through. Wiress's soft palms wipe them away. "Tick tock, tick tock."

A smile forms on her worn face. She looks much older than twenty-seven. "Tick tock indeed. Tick tock indeed."


	8. Creek: Agreement

**I honestly feel a little iffy about this chapter. While it is long, it was a struggle to produce; the words just didn't flow. Where I went wrong I don't know. Maybe my finals are getting to me.**

**In happier news, I have decided to begin writing Just A High Rolling District Boy, the sequel to Roulette. There is no definite date to when it will be uploaded, so keep a look out for it. In return, A Deck of 24 will be reduced to lesser updates (even though this one was over a week from the last). If you guys want, you can vote on my profile poll that will be shortly posted after this update. **

**All in all, thank you everyone for continuously reading and reviewing these series of one-shots! Sometime it's a challenge, but I enjoy writing them.**

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><p><strong>Creek Menendez, District Four: Agreement<strong>

**Place in the 61****st**** Hunger Games: 12****th**** Place**

"When we find him, I'm going to kill him. Alliance or not, he's dead to me."

The anthem plays.

Orazio is dead.

Looks like somebody beat her to it.

It's no coincidence when we take two collective steps back. I don't even know who else died, the recap flashing away shortly after my dead ally's face disappeared. I touch elbow-to-elbow with Valor, not caring of the close proximity with the muscular guy. He doesn't either.

Watching Domitia react is like finding a time bomb at the 00:02 mark. You know that you're going to die, but in that second of realization, you're stuck. Should I act or should I just accept my death? Instincts decide for you and the choice is simple: you act. Feet set, knives out, mind clear, if this alliance ends here and now, I'm ready. All of us stare at the Two girl in dead silence, dreading the moment it all goes to hell. While the Alliance stays intact, the same can't be said for her sanity. To start off her newfound psychosis, Domitia unleashes her anger out on a nearby window. By the time she's done slamming her fist repeatedly into it, we're left with a shattered window and a bloody Domitia. That is not enough for the girl.

The four of us watch in sheer amazement as the self-proclaimed leader of the Career Alliance is reduced to a temper tantrum throwing toddler. Slowly, she spins about the room banging, stomping, smashing, and crashing things in her wake. We step to the side, move to the left, move to the right, move forward, backward, all to flee the wrath of Domitia. This is ridiculous. District Two is supposed to be this high and mighty, holier-than-thou Career paradise and this is what they produce? Someone who beat out the other volunteers and the daughter of a Victor freaking out over her district partner's death? Give me a fucking break.

I don't understand why the Amazon is so distraught over Orazio being dead. She didn't seem to harbor any sentimental feelings over him, if the beast is capable of love. She tolerated him, treated the curly-haired dude with the same attitude she used with us. If anything, she should be celebrating. A Career is dead. One less serious threat we'll have to face in the end. Plus, we can sleep a little easier now. There was something seriously wrong with the Two kid. You could see it in his eyes, the crazed way he followed our movements or watched us sleep. I can't tell you how fast I gripped my knives when I woke up to see his gaze locked on me. Not to mention repeatedly explaining in detail just how he was going to kill each and every one of us, in particular me. I had done nothing to the guy except exist and he chose me for his plaything. We humored him, even Domitia, for none of us were stupid enough to do otherwise. Fact is we'd die before our weapon was drawn, no matter how much he begged us to slit his throat.

Praise Orazio's killer! If I could, I would give the dude a medal of honor for taking on _and_ winning against the brute. Whoever or whatever killed him I don't give a damn. I'm just thankful the crazy one in our alliance is gone. On the other hand, seeing Domitia freak out makes me think we traded out the wrong Career.

"Pathetic," I hear Penelope grumble to herself. I have the suppress the laugh, fearing what would happen if I didn't. Valor eyes me suspiciously, questioning what could be so funny at a time like this.

She comes to a sudden stop, midway from slamming her fist against the door again.

"Hand me the medicine!" shouts the giant. Realizing how stupid she's made herself look in front of the cameras, the original order is quickly reestablished. Radiance busies herself with tending to Domitia's wounded hand, Valor assesses the damage done, and Penelope and I just try to stay out of everyone's way. After what happened first day in, we won't ever cross the line again. It all happened so suddenly. Domitia had us slaving over the crates. It didn't take a genius to see they were gonna be all empty but she didn't want to hear it. One thing lead to another and Penelope almost got us both killed. Both of us and I hadn't even done anything! Domitia hasn't let that day go and neither has Penelope. Daily it seems they argue. I keep whispering to Penelope that it's only a matter of time one of them snaps, but my pleas fall on deaf ears. If a fight does break out between the two, the person left standing will not be my district partner.

I hate Domitia. I seriously _hate_ Domitia. I never thought I would say that about another person. Sure, there're dudes back home that annoy me and some I can't stand, but no one compares to her. She's bossy, rude, and a complete bitch. And she's ugly. Not like that really matters in the grand scheme of things, just thought I'd throw that in. Valor and Radiance, I don't have a problem with either of them. Valor is a pretty cool guy. Radiance keeps to herself and who doesn't like quality eye candy? Both are a little too arrogant sometimes and Radiance likes to be up Domitia's ass 24/7, but I can tolerate them. I'll still kill the District One pair when the time comes, but besides Penelope, they're the best alternative I've got in here.

Domitia starts her slew of orders, her devoted lackey glued to her side. "Head out to hunt. Valor gets Three, Five and Seven. I get Six, Eight and Eleven. You two," she points towards where we're standing. "Split Four, Nine, Ten, and Twelve. Radiance will cover One and protect the base."

It has to be Penelope to oppose her ruling. "We're not going into Ten. The place is crawling with mutts. Whoever went in there would be long dead now."

"You will be too if you don't do as I say Four," Domitia retorts. Putting on the night goggles we found in the Three building a few days back, not another word is said as we file out one by one into the main hallway and into the open abyss of the Arena. Flashes of fire and the occasional rumble guide us to our separate mission. Watching the determined Domitia and Valor sprint off inside the buildings, Penelope immediately join with me as we head inside the Four structure. I won't turn down backup I can trust.

We make a slow pace around the watery building. If this is supposed to represent our district, then the Gamemakers haven't seen Four in a day of their lives. The murky water on the first floor or the depressing steel walls looks nothing like the clear waves and beautiful skies of District Four. In fact, the shoddy replica makes me hate this place more. Coming into this, I thought I had it in the bag. Play it smart, lay low, kill, repeat. Much easier said than done. Now, my Career status means shit in this hellhole. Yeah, I'll get far if I don't do anything stupid, but far isn't winning.

We're silent as we scope out the skyscraper, listening out for any tributes or traps lurking behind the closed doors. Covering level after level, the quiet becomes too much to bear and soon it's Penelope who breaks the silence. The girl sure does like to run her mouth.

"Of course Radiance would get the easiest job to do. I swear the carpet muncher has a thing for One," she scoffs, sucking her teeth in the process.

I shake my head in amusement. "Let it go," I say, half-joking and half-serious. The constant bickering between Penelope and Domitia is getting old, and from the eyerolls Valor gives them, I'm not the only one who agrees. At this point, I don't care who's right or wrong. I just want the girls to shut up. Must be on their periods or something. "I know we have a sexually frustrated ape as a leader but would you get over it and move on?"

"Alright, alright I will," she sighs, disappointed that I haven't joined in on the 'Let's bash Domitia' party of one. "But aren't you tired of her? Can't we just end the Alliance now and double team the bitch?"

Throughout this time, Penelope has been walking a few steps behind guarding my back. Now, I stop and whip my head to face her. She bumps right into me, so caught up in her crackpot plan that she didn't realize I've stopped moving. Before this, I've come to tolerate, even respect my district partner. She's a decent person, wicked with knives, and from home. Yet looking at her, now I see how…unintelligent she is. Is that even the right word to use? To think we could end the Alliance now is just plain stupid. Who in their right mind ends it this early in the Games? Only under extreme circumstances or do incredibly skilled Careers take on the biggest threats in the Games. This isn't last year. The majority of the others are still alive and well. Most importantly, we aren't that good to take them on this early. I don't know if we're good enough to take them on period.

"You've got to be kidding me," I say, hoping she is but knowing better.

The short girl shakes her head confidently, black ponytail swinging. "Why would I be? We're strong, Careers, got enough supplies and weapons to hold out on our own. Sponsors are probably lining up to send us gifts," she tries to convince me.

"The others are strong, we aren't the only Careers in the Arena, the supplies on us now wouldn't last us two days, and we haven't seen one parachute since the start of the Games," I shoot down all of her points. Penelope needs to face the reality of our situation. Yes, our supply pile is a fairly decent size. The wooden spear from the Cornucopia, metal ones we found lying around the Arena, three swords, throwing knives, packs of jerky, dried and fresh fruit, and energy bars (sadly no Vroom! Vroom! Bars), a few medical supplies, and one water bottle for each of us. But we're not strong enough to just buck the system and go solo. We _are_ the weakest link in the Career Alliance. We wouldn't make it a day without them hunting us down, not after Orazio's betrayal. I know it, the others know it. Hell, the audience probably knows it too.

"If Orazio can do it, why can't we?"

"Orazio also died the same day he abandoned us."

She puts her hands on her hips, frustrated that this debate isn't going the way she planned. What, did she expect me to just hop on board no questions asked? Please. "Who knows what killed him. Besides, the only tribute we've been able to find in this damn place was that Six girl I caught two days back. If Queen Domitia can't hunt down scared, untrained children, how in the hell is she gonna find us?"

My eyebrows go up in surprise. A smile tugs at her lips. She does have a point and she realizes it. From a Career perspective, we're a pathetic pair this year. Near day six and scored a laughable three kills at the bloodbath, one in the second bloodbath, and just one more after that. We're not totally to blame; this Arena is confusing, like it's been designed against us Careers. Most of the buildings were swamped with supplies, easy access for the others to survive. Not the Career buildings. One, Two, and Four were left with little to nothing to choose from. Who knows what the others snatched up by the time we searched through the rest. No sponsor system either, our main source of support. Not even the slightest bit of vegetation. And no telling why we've had barely any luck killing off the others. What the hell is that music and smoke bullshit? Rather conspiracy or lack of skill on our part, all I know is that we need to do something fast, or else. The Careers can't fall out of the Capitol's favor. That's not how the Games work. It's not right. It's not fair!

I wrack my brain trying to come up with a good response. She has me beat. "I'm still not doing it," is what I can manage. A sudden idea pops in my head. I decide to go with it. Let's see if she's dumb enough to take the bait.

I fold my arms, leaning lazily on the cold steel walls. "And really, what makes you think I'd ally with you?"

Our knives are out. Hook, line, and sinker. At the Career Academy, words like that are just silly banter. In the Games, it's a threat. Not a breath is taken as the other waits to take action. If Penelope's truly the idiot she's quickly showing herself to be, I'm not afraid to end this little friendship right now. The shorter girl can flick a knife in my chest with the snap of a finger, but I'm fast, and strong. We had the same Victors mentoring us. I've seen Penelope at work. I know her weaknesses. Take away her knives and she's an easy kill.

"Put your weapon down Creek," she barks, infuriated at the extreme turn of events. To go from becoming a possible duo to killing your district partner in a matter of minutes is quite shocking. Hey, this is the Hunger Games. Expect the unexpected.

"Ladies first," I mock the hideously fat woman assigned to be our escort. She picks up on the joke and lets out a short snort. Her knives haven't moved an inch.

To show that I'm not ready to kill her just yet, I brave it out and store my weapons away. My hands are up in the air. Wide open. "You failed."

Penelope is confused, cocking her head to the side. The grip on her knives tightens. "Failed what?"

"The test," I say flatly, deliberately playing with her emotions. Again she falls for it. My district partner isn't bright at all.

Her foot stomps the ground, metal shaking and echoing the sound throughout the building. Way to give our location away. "Quit playing games and tell me what you mean Creek!"

"Okay, okay," I throw my hands up in surrender again, chuckling at her outburst. One more taunt and I might find a knife in my throat for real. "You're too impulsive to rough it out on your own. Have you as a leader and we'd be dead two days tops." My expression grows serious. "Penelope, be rational. When the time comes, the time comes. Right now, let's stick it out and play it by ear."

Scrunching up her eyebrows, she knows I'm right. Will she admit it? Not a chance in hell.

Back to the mission at hand. We continue creeping through the quiet hallways, the same positions as before. I'm anxious to find something, anything to get my hands on. Another bottle of water would be pretty awesome. Just thinking about our unusually low supply of it tempts me to take another swig of my own. Eventually we realize nothing's in the building and move on to the next. Nothing in the Nine building either except a few things of pita bread. It's soft and seems safe, so we split the snack for a quick meal. Completely skipping the Ten building, our slower steps inside Twelve match the nervous thoughts we have about entering it. No one with an ounce of sense would go waltzing in willy nilly inside a place that went up in flames first day in and now looks virtually untouched. I can't trust the Gamemakers. This skyscraper means trouble.

Heat greets us inside first thing in. This is ridiculous. It's much hotter than the other buildings. Is it a play on their industry, coal mining? Or is it just this warm in Twelve? I never paid attention to the poorest district of Panem (who does?) but I wouldn't imagine it being this hot. Guess I'll find out if, excuse me, _when_ I go on my Victory Tour.

Our jackets don't even make it to the second level. Bodies sweating, I contemplate taking off the leather boots we were issued and going barefoot until I realize how many ways I could wound myself and go septic. I give Penelope a look over to see she isn't faring any better. She isn't. Careful sips are slurped from our bottles, determined not to waste any but not pass out from dehydration or heat exhaustion at the same time. Why is it so damn hot in here? I don't understand what the purple robes are playing at. Both tributes from Twelve are long dead now and who would think to hide in this building, with or without the inferno?

"Kinda reminds you of summer back home," Penelope talks, sounding more exhausted than a Career should be. "Boy were the days hot back then. The sand too. You couldn't keep the younger kids out of the water."

"Now is not the time or the temperature for mushy talk Penelope." I whip my damp black hair back as we share a quick laugh. After the little stunt I pulled earlier, our camaraderie went a little south. That doesn't stop a conversation from forming. I wish it would. What has got the girl reminiscing over home, especially while out hunting? Distractions like this are dangerous in the Arena and definitely not allowed in such a quiet, cramped one like this. Get to talking and you get too comfortable. Before you know it, something sneaks up on you and BAM!, you're dead. I've worked too hard to go out like that, by a surprise attack. I have the smarts to see this but Penelope clearly doesn't.

"And the sweet ice the old man outside the Career Academy used to pass out," she continues. "You remember those?"

"Yes."

"What was your favorite flavor? Mine was the pineapple. Damn I can use one right about now."

"Oh okay."

Hearing her stop makes me stop. "What?" I struggle to form an interested expression when I'm more concerned about my skin catching fire.

Her button nose wrinkles up on her tanned skin, her beady black eyes matching my own. She looks like a sun-kissed, confused little puppy. Could be considered cute given more normal, saner circumstances. "Don't you miss home Creek?" she asks, reading my face for any sign of emotion.

"It's the reason why I'm trying to be quiet so we can find some tributes," I whisper this time, angry at her insistence to drag up memories of Four. Of course I miss home. I miss the Career Academy, the guys out at the harbor, my crewmates. Real food. Fresh air. Water. Even old Kale, the lazy drunk I've had the displeasure calling captain since I was little tike. All the years of training still couldn't prepare me for a place like this. We're taught to fight and survive in the wilderness, because that's the most common Arena. Rocky, forest, beach, desert. Some type of vegetation. But an industrial, "closed" Hunger Games?

Miraculously, we find a spot cool enough to rest in. Only for a minute though. No telling what the Gamemakers have up their robes. Treasuring tiny drops from our bottles, I finally give in to talking about my thoughts. It was going to happen eventually.

"I saw them," I say, swiping away my overgrown hair. I need a haircut.

Penelope looks up, curious to what I'm talking about. "Saw who?"

"The District Ten kid they keep talking about, him and his posse. Had his district partner with him this time."

Up on her feet, knives ready, already she's lusting for blood. "When? Where? Why didn't you let us know?" I'm waiting on her to finish the English lesson and ask me 'Why? How often? To what extent?' She doesn't seem to be in a joking mood anymore.

"Calm down girl," I pat at her leg, knocking her over a little in the process. "It was earlier today. You were all still asleep and by the time I woke everyone up, they would have been gone." Actually I just didn't feel up to hunting. I don't feel up to anything anymore.

Before I know what's happening, I blurt out the words no tribute should ever say in the Games. "I don't like it in here Penelope."

For once I've left my district partner speechless. My head cast down in shame, I turn away from her. I half expect Penelope to kill me now. She has every right to. I've embarrassed myself, my family, our district, our country, the president. A Career, someone who volunteered for this, admitting defeat and speaking against the Hunger Games. A small act of rebellion in the eyes of the Capitol. Cameras all zoomed in on our conversation, I can imagine what everyone thinks of me now, how my poll numbers are plummeting. Damn her for getting me all emotional!

Still not a peep out of her. I continue on. "What? You kept badgering me about my feelings and now you don't like the truth. Well fuck you."

I think I'm going insane when I hear her voice whisper, "Me neither."

In that moment, we lock eyes and something happens. Something horrible happens. We finally understand the point of the Hunger Games. Not for fame or fortune or glory. But to break us, segregate us, kill us figuratively and literally. Now I understand the victors' subtle warnings throughout the years, why my crewmates, the most rough and tumble pair of dudes you'll ever meet, _bawled their eyes out_ when they said their goodbyes. How foolish we look spewing bullshit about district pride and performing for the audience. Killing each other to get home? What are our families thinking of? I was never friends with Penelope, little more than friendly acquaintances, but to volunteer to kill the daughter of the friendly man I sell crabs to every week? What kind of human being am I?

Tears are in our eyes but we won't let them fall. Not while the cameras are watching. There is still an ounce of fight left in us.

"I killed a little girl," utters Penelope, more to herself than to me. "I killed the little Six girl. She was only twelve."

"She never stood a chance. Either you or someone else. Twelve-year-olds never win," I try to reassure her. With the slump in her shoulders and mouth trembling, it's not working.

Suddenly she springs up, wiping the tears away, fierce and determined. It's as if she's completely forgot about what she's done. "Creek, let's make an agreement."

"On what?"

Biting her lower lip, she begins. "If I…were to lose, could you look after my family?"

I hesitate. Is it even allowed for me to care for the losing tribute's family? Whatever the answer to that question is, I can't tell the girl no. It would be cruel to. And her family is watching. So is mine.

"Without a doubt," I answer. "Lana, Brooke, and Kendall your sisters?"

Her black eyes light up, surprised that I remember them all. "Yep. Watch out for Brooke though. She's a handful." We laugh for a bit until it's my turn to ask a favor.

"Look out after mine too if, you know, _it_ happens," I say. She nods her head, sweat dripping down her forehead. "Reece is my younger brother. He looks up to me you know? Thinks his big bro can do it all." The thought of my rambunctiously independent little brother puts a smirk on my face. I gotta make him proud, show him his big bro is the jack-of-all-trades he makes me out to be.

"You'll make him proud. We're Careers. We'll win. Deal?" Her hand is held out in front of me, manicured nails chipped and broken. I grab the short girl's moist palm and look her straight in the eye.

"Deal."

We don't mention just how we plan to win the Hunger Games. That it may come down between me and her in the end. That I'll have to kill my district partner and the friendly restaurant owner's daughter in the process. That in the back of my head, I know that neither of us will come out of here alive.

Wishful thinking never hurt anyone though. Like I said before: expect the unexpected.

* * *

><p><em>In a crowded restaurant by the docks of Four, groups of people, both fisherman and landworker, customer and visitor, Career and non-Career, sit and watch the last of their tributes die. No one, supporter or opposer of the Games, would enjoy watching the girl shout for her father as her feet, legs, arms, and head is slowly grinded to pieces. They were so strong, had promise, and the Gamemakers treated them like this? One group in particular, two young teens, one boy, one girl, sit in the corner of the restaurant. Their soft cries are overshadowed by the audience surrounding the girl's parents, one in shock and the other fainted. The girl weeps for the older sister that'll never tell her how to be the perfect Victor once she volunteers. The boy remembers the older brother he won't ever go fish diving with again.<em>

_The District Four tributes failed their brother and sister. They failed everyone._

* * *

><p>Note: About the 'district pride' part, I got the idea from Ch. 11 of Roulette, long before the movie came out. Just in case anyone thought I copied Cato's monologue in the Cornucopia scene.<p> 


	9. Penelope: Evaluation

**This is proof that A Deck of 24 has not been abandoned, so yay! By the way, I have uploaded the sequel to Roulette, Just a High Rolling District Boy, if anyone is interested. Go check it out and see if you like it. /end shameless advertising.**

* * *

><p><strong>Penelope Cardona, District Four: Evaluation<strong>

**Place in the 61****st**** Hunger Games: 9****th**** Place**

Ice clinks inside the stubby glass, islanded by fermented waters. Two to be exact. I like the number two. It was safe. Useful. One was too risky. Three was too much. But two, two was perfect. Lose one, have another. Backup. That's why Taticus is here with me. A second opinion was always valuable when choosing a new lover.

We weren't browsing the late-night shopping network, oh no. The selections on there were much too shoddy for my taste, cheap boys and girls used and abused by anyone with spare change to get rid of. Worse, they were all so _common_. Everyday mannequins styled in those gawdy getups proclaimed as the "future of fashion". Atrocious, if you asked me. There was a time where the Capitol was a simpler place, one where being dressed to the nine was expected of true ladies and gentlemen. Where parents granted their newborns names of great warriors of a bygone era. Now, they were being subjected to such things as Vermillion Zorata, great-grandson of Maximus Zorata, first Victor of Panem. Name kept only out of power.

That is why we are scooted in front of my lounge room's hologram player scooping out the new recruits. The twenty-four lovely children to be picked, polished, and presented in their dirty districts and casted away to my playground to be used at my disposal. Particularly the selections of the female varieties was of the most interest.

"It's starting, shh," Taticus speaks, silencing me though I've said nothing aloud. Thinning green hair swooped into a ponytail, the aging man hungrily gnaws and slurps on boiled peanuts as the Reaping Recap begins. As Head Gamemaker, I have live access to all twelve District Reapings but it just kills me to sit through each tired speech, useless mayor presentation, and that outdated piece of historical cinema they've broadcasted for eons.

Hm, District One. What do you have for me this year? Surprisingly the girl is not another carbon copy blonde, but that is where the differences stop. Carrying the same arrogant air of the volunteers who have come before her, nothing is special about Ms. Radiance St. Noir. Pretty yet typical. The same goes for her male counterpart strutting to the stage. Too much like last year's pair, Jade and Levi. Yes, both were memorable Career tributes known for their beauty and brutality but no one likes reruns. I've already had to hear it from Coriolanus for how short it lasted, no matter the incredible ratings it brought in.

"My is that a strapping young lad. So blond, virile. Muscles bursting out of that nice suit," Taticus literally drools over Mr. Valor Rousseau, camera zoomed in on his flawless smile.

We share a hearty laugh, pouring another glass of gin. That's why I like Taticus. Other than his lust for the same sex, we are two of a kind: decadent hedonists refusing to be tied down by that 'wife and children' bullshit. Our colleagues might have fallen prey to it but not us. To meet someone whose sexual appetite rivals my own is just mindblowing. Is the man such an insatiable pervert! There's not a body he would say no to. Man or woman, young or old, beautiful or hideous. Taticus isn't much of a looker himself but never has that stopped him, sporting a new plaything at every ritzy function or swanky party. His voracious libido knows no limits. Neither does mine.

"Down boy. He'll be all yours in a few days." My chuckling is cut short when District Two is shown. While they make for a spectacular show and are fan favorites of the Capitol, the trolls and ogres of the masonry and weaponry district fail miserably in the looks department. Rarely have I seen anything of aesthetic worth come out of the militant place. Trampling her way to the stage, I'm tempted to call up their mayor and demand a redo. Not Hortensia's girl. Anyone but her. Working with the Victor is already going to be pure misery, but having her daughter in the Games as well? Come on.

Meanwhile, Taticus can't stop laughing. Victor Veronesi is known among the Gamemaker circle to be an, to put it quite nicely, absolute bitch to work with. Demanding, rude, we sometimes subject her tributes to the worst deaths just to spite her. I can use one hand to name the people who genuinely like the fiery woman. The rest of us only tolerate her because of her long winning lineage and unusual power she wields in the Capitol. She isn't even attractive and how unfortunate for her daughter to be the splitting image of the tyrant.

"This shall be interesting."

The male tribute and District Three pass without incident and soon the sandy shores of District Four splashes its way onto the screen.

Now it's my turn to shush my fellow Gamemaker. "Quiet you. This is what I've been waiting for."

The fishing district has always held a soft spot in my heart. It's my go-to getaway whenever I need time away from all the glitz and glamour of the big city. The air is fresh. The food is lovely. The sights, oh are the sights to die for. Their women are just delectable! Such natural beauts, not like the creatures I'm forced to choose from here in the Capitol. If only I was allowed to live there. It's such a shame the tributes of Four lose more often than their more popular allies. This year though, this year I want it to be different. I've had my eyes set on acquiring a nice Four woman for quite some time. As tempting as it would be, I can't just pluck one from the waters and ship her to the Capitol unless they are a Victor and none of the current Victors of Four will do. Either too old, too damaged, too ugly, or a combination of the three. I need something new, something exciting. Something I can sink my teeth, and tongue, into.

I get just what I ask for when the escort proceeds with the drawing. A chubby twelve-year-old is replaced by what I must declare to be the most beautiful specimen I've ever laid eyes on. In a pretty orange dress putting all sunsets to shame, my future bride glides to her stage in her worn leather princess slippers, commanding the show like it was produced just for her.

"What is your name, promising tribute?"

"Penelope Cardona." Coffee on a bitter cold morning is her voice. Smooth, sultry. Yet revitalizing. It wakes you up. When I see her flash a smile so vicious, so bloodthirsty, it seals the deal.

I want this sun-kissed, raven-haired, curvy, youthful, petite Ms. Penelope Cardona. I demand her. Dare I say it: this may be love at first sight.

"Does Vermillion have a crush on a certain tribute?" Taticus teases, peanut shells falling out of his wrinkled mouth.

I'm so memorized by my future wife that I completely tune out the rest of the viewing. "Indeed I do."

Grinning, I say, "That Penelope girl? She's mine. I'll make sure of that."

* * *

><p>Running a sword through one training dummy and slitting the throat of the next, the boy tribute from Four skids to a dramatic finish of his private session. Placing the weapon down on the display, he turns towards us, patiently awaiting the standing ovation he believes he deserves.<p>

Bored out of my mind, I have to fight off a yawn. "Tribute Menendez, you are free to leave. Thank you."

His face falters, clearly not expecting the lackluster response to the show he thought he put his heart and soul into. Creek doesn't have the sense to hide his disappointment, bowing quickly and giving us a curt thank you before stomping off.

"I like him." Mitzi is the first to speak. I respect my fellow Gamemaker's opinion but she's a new recruit, fourth year on the board. The young woman wants every tribute, both terrific and terrible, to have a high score. Too nice, I say.

"Give him the usual Career score," I wave off her enthusiasm and everyone denotes a score of eight. If the boy really did deserve such a score I would never know. While he was running around making a mess of the place, all I could think of was his beautiful district partner. Of how graceful she would move. Of how delicious she would look in her training uniform. It was rather unprofessional of me to ignore a promising one like Creek especially just seven tributes in, but his score matters little in the grand scheme of things. He could have rightly earned a twelve for all I care. If I am to receive my Penelope, her district partner will be killed one way or another.

I hold my breath when she enters. Ms. Cardona waltz in front of us with the confidence of ten Victors, toned legs standing out in her skin-showing uniform. I was so torn as to what the tributes would wear this year for training. What would show off the ladies' bodies more: tights or shorts? M final decision was spandex shorts, the best of both worlds. A brilliant idea, seeing Penelope fitting into hers just perfectly.

"Penelope Cardona. District Four," she bows slowly then comes back up, a few strands of that short, silky smooth hair of hers getting in the way. Her chocolate eyes meet each of our own, mines a little longer. A silent provocation, daring us to give her a low score.

"Madame Cardona, start when you are ready." The excitement is too much to bear. Madame Cardona just _sounds_ sexy. Or what about Mistress Cardona? Mistress Zorata? My hands subtly smooth out the insides of my robe. I hope no one has seen how aroused I've become.

Throwing knives are her weapons of choice. A silence falls over the group while we watch the assassin at work. Watching her move is like witnessing a ballerina in her prime. Gracefully, Madame Cardona dances about the place, footwork at a level I haven't seen in years. The target dummies stand not a chance, the Four girl striking them with near flawless precision. She is deadly both long and short distance. A kick in the neck. A slash at the throat. Two backflips and bullseye right in the heart. I'm simply enthralled by this eighteen-year old wonder. The same goes for my colleagues, scribbling down notes on their electronic pads. I take notes of my own, both physical and mental. Her breasts, succulent in that skintight shirt, jiggle with every move. Well-toned buttocks taunt me as she twists and turns about the stage.

Simultaneously, Taticus and I's devious gaze meet across the table.

_She's a keeper,_ he mouths.

I nod eagerly, not trusting myself with doing anything more.

Suddenly, Penelope lunges into the small swimming pool behind her, producing a gasp out of some of the Gamemakers. I stare in awe at my love. She takes to the water so naturally, effortlessly. Of course she does. The girl's from District Four.

Take that Radiance and Domitia! This girl will give both broads a run for their money. They all better sleep with one eye open and their weapons close because Penelope has a bloody future ahead of her.

When she leaps out of the waters soaking wet, uniform clinging to her braless body, it takes every ounce of my dignity not to launch myself at the girl.

"Bravo Madame Cardona. Very nice. Yes, yes," I clap for the Career, unable to hide my obvious favoritism. My colleagues look at each other confusedly, eventually joining in on the applause. Never do we show this much emotion towards tributes, even the amazing ones.

"Thank you," Penelope's voice floats my way and kisses me goodbye. My eyes detach from her gracious backside only when it leaves me, walking out the door.

Mitzi scrunches up her pudgy nose. "She was okay. A bit too reckless for me."

"Shut up woman," I bark, causing the younger Gamemaker to shrink back in her chair. She doesn't say another word. "A ten for Madame Cardona."

* * *

><p>"Does this mean we have an automatic win on our hands?"<p>

We're in the deliberation room, reviewing our notes on the twenty-four tributes and finalizing scores. Right now the Seven girl, Cecily, is up for discussion. I vaguely recall the teen climbing up the rockclimbing mound and doing decent at the netmaking station. Taticus and I are huddled in the corner, having a private conversation on a much more important subject. No one wants to bother the Head Gamemaker and his second-in-command, so we are left to do as we please.

I pause, taking the time to formulate the right answer. "No."

Surprised, the balding man immediately gets giddy over the revelation. He believes this now guarantees Valor to him. He is my dearest friend but at times Taticus can be too simple-minded.

"Why not?"

"Because this is the Hunger Games. All bets and sponsors aside, this is a fight to the death, not a fight to see who is the prettiest or can make the audience laugh the most." Making a face, he instantly loses interest in the subject and walks away to join the others. Taticus does not like my response. That's unfortunate.

Too often has a quality year been diluted into a beauty pageant or a popularity contest. I do listen to the public's opinion and heed their interests, yet Coriolanus and I have the final say on what goes, and tradition comes first. The Hunger Games needs to go back to its roots: a free-for-all separating the strong from the weak. The definitive measure of ultimate physical and intellectual prowess. What is being tarnished by the uneducated masses and flimsy Gamemakers is the element of surprise. Surprise is essential to the Games. Surprise _is_ the Hunger Games. Killing off a tribute that was smooth sailing to victory moments before. Letting the weak live through a trap that was certain to finish them off. Taking out a Career or two just days into the Games. It keeps everyone on their toes, and everyone in place.

Now, everyone wants things to be rigged but rigging is dangerous. Rigging produces patterns. Patterns produce stability. Stability produces comfort. Our forefathers did not enact the Hunger Games to pacify the nation. It was created to elicit fear. Submission. Every citizen of Panem must be commanded to obey the Capitol, Career districts included. Career districts especially. This country will not spiral out of control and thrown into anarchy, not while I'm Head Gamemaker.

If Penelope wants to live, the girl has to prove her worth to me. No favoritism granted for any tribute. Beautiful or not, she will have to fight and fight well. No matter how pretty the face, it can easily be replaced.

And outmatched.

* * *

><p>I couldn't be happier with how things were shaping out in the Arena. Coriolanus insisted that I draw out this year as long as possible. It was a challenge, balancing the icy man's demands while entertaining the audience and producing a Hunger Games I was proud to call my own, but I have fulfilled all three interests.<p>

But there is more to be done, more to be revealed. Twelve days in and a miraculous number of tributes still roams the Arena I've titled 'The Urban Jungle'. Eight of them. The Career Alliance, what's left of it, mans the Two building and is tearing at the seams. I'd give it an hour or two before it completely dissolves. The rest are hiding out in various buildings.

Quirky Eli in Six.

Skittish Morgana, amazed that she is still alive, in Five.

Determined Valentino in Seven.

Pacifist turned murderer Isaiah in Nine. A grin appears on my face when I think back on the traps I've tormented the boy with, punishment for defying the Capitol in his interview with unauthorized talk of religious cults. He will be dealt with soon.

And then there was the husky tribute from Ten, Giovanni Del Rojo, barely hanging on in Four. Tribute Del Rojo was quite a survivor; cheating death twice, once by pure luck and the second by my hands. Yes, Creek rightfully deserved to win against Giovanni, everyone knows that, but I needed to keep the audience guessing, so down the Career went.

This time, there will be no more chances given to him or anyone. I had tampered with the Games far enough, coddling the tributes, bombing Eleven and Twelve for dramatic effect. The tributes were playing the defensive for too long and that got boring quick. It was time to leave it all in the hands of chance now. Let the odds truly be their favor, for they'll need all the luck in the world to survive what is about to come.

"Unleash the grinder."

One press of a button and it's showtime.

Evolution ignites in front of our eyes. Things come to a stop. Both tribute and Gamemaker pause to take in the abnormal silence that has consumed the Arena that has, until now, produced noises since the start. Bombs are ceased. Typing is stopped. The Careers take a break on their bickering. It's time to present the next contender in the 61st Hunger Games.

Isaiah is the first to see it. The boy runs like his life depended on it (actually it does), soaring through the Arena and leaping over the gates before we have time to fully lower them.

"Well he's eager," says Mitzi, chuckling at the teenager's vain effort to keep himself alive. With his puny baton, who does he think he'll defeat? Don't even know why he bothers.

It takes for Valentino to make a run for it for the others to realize that they need to either move or die. I shake my head at the pitiful sight of the Careers, way up high in the Two building, letting the others beat them inside the Capitol building. They are the main reason why I have released the grinder in the first place. This year's Careers have been something to remember. For all the wrong reasons. First it was the pathetic kill count at the first bloodblath. Just three? What were they doing, playing patty cake and tea time with the other tributes? I had hosted another bloodbath, a second one, the next day for the group redeem themselves. Just one kill. One! And the last two left to duke it out were two randoms from Seven and Twelve. Thankfully Orazio's surprise death spurred up some activity in the dull alliance, but that was not enough for me.

Worse, Penelope has turned into a great disappointment. Granted she did perform quite nicely when I gave her the twelve-year-old from Six to eliminate but when she approached Domitia threatening to end the alliance first day in, I had to reevaluate my entire thought process on the girl. How foolish of her to provoke her strongest opponents so soon! No matter if she was bluffing, who in their right mind does that? That one act set of a wildstorm, neither girls ever forgiving the other and me never forgiving Penelope. The more she opened her mouth, the more I found myself falling out of love with her. To go from a flawless beauty to an annoying _twat_ so quickly…I just don't understand.

I watch the Careers falter and embarrass themselves by letting the poisoned, weakened Giovanni escape their grasp and limp into the Capitol tower ahead of them. Originally I had planned for the grinder to take him out. The Ten boy's jokes and cockiness were fun but his time was up. Now I don't know who to kill. I can't just get rid of the grinder. That wouldn't be a good show. Imagine how upset my audience will be. So who should die the most gruesome death of this year's Games?

Will it be Domitia? Her mother recently made her appearance in the master room minutes earlier, questioning my intentions even though we have told her time and time again only Gamemakers are allowed at this point. It would serve Hortensia right, bossing me around like I'm her servant. Victor or not, she was from the districts and she needed a reality check. If it meant sacrificing her daughter, so be it.

Maybe Radiance. She is falling dangerously close to the metal spikes. One false move and it's game over. The brunette had been boring me, playing keepaway and laying lowing too much of the time. I had forced her to kill the Three tribute to spice things up and more importantly to show her usefulness. It was time to leave Domitia's shadow or face the consequences.

Or is it Valor's time to die? An eager Career who killed at the drop of a hat, it would be a shock to seem him mutilated by the grinder yet a shock gossiped about for months to come. Taticus would never forgive him. His cravings grew so strong for the boy that he would send out a legion of muttations on the others if it meant a night with the blond. Oh well. He'll get over his loss. With the attention span of a toddler, it would only be hours until he found another young thing to salivate over.

Any of the three would be justifiable and make for a memorable show. Whatever happens at this point, I'm satisfied either way.

The decision is made for me and it's one I did not expect. Sipping the entire glass of white wine and hastily pouring another, I witness Domitia execute her now former ally and feed her to the spiky mouth of the Urban Jungle to save the One girl. It's a horrible sight, viewing such a masterpiece be literally torn to shreds. I can't handle the torture, mentally blocking out the screams and pleas of Tribute Cardona. Neither can any of the other Gamemakers, squirming in the chairs and distracting themselves with anything but the bloodshed laid out in front of our eyes. Even the creators of such monstrosities can get a little squeamish when it performs its duties a little too well.

As the remaining tributes line up for the second part of the Feast, my angry lashes out on the very person that caused this mess. If Tribute Cardona had just been a better Career then I wouldn't have had to result to such barbarism! She is to blame, the silly girl. Less arguing and more killing and she would have been alive! Damn the imbecile! Getting me all worked up for nothing. She was so pretty too, the epitome of physical perfection. Now what am I to do?

Taticus goes to comfort me and I take his skeleton hand from off my shoulder. What does he care? His selection is still alive and well. I don't need his feigned concern.

Chin in my hands, I'm offhandedly scanning the kids below when my gaze pauses on the District One girl. Bloodied and traumatized she may be, never has Ms. Radiance St. Noir looked so…beautiful. I didn't notice her svelte figure, or how perfectly placed her bun sits atop her head, or the mischievous glimmer in those caramel eyes. Standing atop her plate, I see how the One girl lives up to her name.

Hm…..Madame St. Noir was never ugly. Just not my first choice. She is also from District One, a fine place to spend one's vacation if I do say so myself. Life with the girl wouldn't be too bad. I could settle for her. The brunette looks like she knows her way around the bedroom too, the naughty imp. Always a plus. On second thought, I was a fool to pass up Madame St. Noir! Silly me, ignoring the most gorgeous tribute to grace the Games in years. This girl will be the next Madame Zorata. I just know it in my heart. Nothing will stand in her way; I'll make sure of it.

I always knew backups came in handy. Two is certainly the promised number.

Oh, indeed it is.


	10. Nace: Letters

**Nace Pololanik: Letters**

**Place in the 61****st**** Hunger Games: 23****rd**** Place**

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><p><em>March 11, 354<em>_th__ Year of Panem, 67__th__ Hunger Games_

Hi Daddy!

Mommy told me to rite this for you. She said to rite you letters every month. She gives me a prettie blue pen to rite it with. We put it by a rock in a big field with other rocks. Your rock even has your name on it. I tought that was cool. I ask Mommy wear are you and she says you went on vakashon. Can I come to vakashon with you? I can spell my name now. Mommy gives me bubblegum wen I spell it right. I like the green one the best. What kind of bubblegum do you like?

I love you Daddy,

Rudolf Pololanik

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><p><em>April 9, 354<em>_th__ Year of Panem, 67__th__ Hunger Games_

Hi Daddy!

My first tooth came out! I look funnie when I smile. Mommy pulled it out. I cried because it hurted. We learned our numbers and letters at skool. I can cont to 60! Is that a high number Daddy? We learn about historee too. Mrs. Gorski said it is importent to know about our countrie but I do not like it. When will you leave vakashon? You have been gone for a long time. Mommy cries at night a lot. Come back so she can be happie.

I love you Daddy,

Rudolf Pololanik

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><p><em>August 14, 354<em>_th__ Year of Panem, 67__th__ Hunger Games_

Hi Daddy!

Today was very speshal. We had Reaping Day. The older kids were sad that it was Reaping Day. Mommy cried in the morning. The two kids who got to play for something called The Hunger Games cried too. The pink man on stage was verie happie. He even kissed them on the cheek! What is The Hunger Games Daddy? Is it when you eats the most food and win? Mrs. Gorski tells us to date everything with it but she never tells me what it is. I ask Mommy and she gets angry. I cry when she yells at me. She tells me not to ask her agan. Can I play in The Hunger Games? I always go to bed hungry cause Mommy never cooks dinner. I would eat a hole shepard pie and win. Do they give them pie in the Hunger Games? I am still waiting on you to come back from vakashon.

I love you Daddy,

Rudolf Pololanik

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><p><em>August 26, 354<em>_th__ Year of Panem, 67__th__ Hunger Games_

Hi Daddy!

Lisabeth was crieing in klass today. I asked her why she was crieing and she said her brother died in The Hunger Games. Karsten laufed at us. He is verie mean and I do not like him. He likes to bullie us a lot even when Mrs. Gorski tells him to stop. He said you died in The Hunger Games! Mommy slapped me when I asked her abot it. She is angry everie day. Why would you die in The Hunger Games Daddy? I thought you were on vakashon? Please rite back to me. You are not picking up my letters by your rock. Do you not like my letters?

I still love you Daddy,

Rudolf Pololanik

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><p><em>January 8, 357<em>_th__ Year of Panem, 70__th__ Hunger Games_

Hey.

So I don't really know why I'm writing this. I haven't written to you in like, what, three years? I know why you haven't answered any of my letters. Surprise, surprise, you're dead. Mom finally broke down one day and told me when I was seven. One day before dinner I asked where you really were. Instead of beating around the bush, she put the knife down, stopped cutting the tomatoes and flat out told me. You weren't on vacation. You weren't coming back. You were dead. Till this day she refuses to tell me just how you died. I'm not sure if I want to know. Besides, I have bigger things to worry about.

Mom pretty much forgot about you. She's seeing this skinny, smelly dude now. Laurens Giese. What type of name is that? He expects me to call him Dad. Even wants me to take his last name. Mom already has. Please. I barely know the dude and I already hate his guts. Coming in long after the scheduled curfew, sitting on the couch watching Hunger Games reruns, not making a dime for himself. Mom still loves his sorry ass. Oops, sorry that I cursed Dad. (Do I even call you Dad? You are dead.) He's ripping us off Dad, sweet-talking Mom for money and stealing from her when she says no. I caught him twice in her coin jar. Laurens beats Mom too. She yells at me when I point out the bruises on her arm and chest, so I don't say anything anymore. I don't want to stress her out.

Money is getting real tight. We've never had it good but it's down to the wire now. The main plant in Ampere, the sector we live in, are cutting back hours, why I don't know. With all the lights the Capitol uses, you'd think they would have enough work for every person in Panem. Not to mention the winter being pretty rough this year. There's only so much a tattered coat, hand-me-down boots, and lukewarm water can do. Mom has found odd jobs here and there but it's not enough. Laurens is one screw up away from being fired from his janitor job at the schoolhouse, so he's no help either. Plus Nana and Papa are too sick to work now. We had to hire a nurse for them since both are bedridden. That's why I took up a shift at the old factory down the road packaging batteries. Wake up before the sun rises, go to work, eat the slop they give us, go to school, pass out at home. You get chump change but it's enough to have something in my belly. I do Mrs. Gorski's shopping whenever she needs it too. Her eyesight is getting bad and I always was her favorite. Isn't that something: I'm nine-years old and I'm the one putting food on the table.

I had to rip off some cardboard to write this. Used the same pretty blue pen Mom gave me too. Pen and paper are luxuries. Hell, soap is a cause for celebration. Oops, sorry again about that. I'm a tired, angry, sad, hungry kid with a miserable mother, abusive live-in rat, and dying grandparents. When will it end Dad? When will it end?

You know what. Forget it. Dead people can't help me. No one can't help me. I don't care anymore.

Rudy

* * *

><p><em>September 1, 357<em>_th__ Year of Panem, 70__th__ Hunger Games_

So I found out how you died. Just a few minutes ago actually. Had to write this down on a napkin I took from Grey Gregor's, the diner a few blocks down. Laurens was doing his usual: gargling cheap beer, laid out in front of the TV. I decided to take a peek of what he was laughing at. It was the Games. Mom never lets me watch them, slapping me if I'm caught looking at anything past the required viewings. She was out cleaning some rich family's house so I thought, 'Hey, why not?' If Laurens was good for anything, it would be knowing the Hunger Games. The dude's an expert on it. Can probably say every Victor in order of win. Too bad the only time he can stand me is when he's drunk. He's actually nice once you get a few drinks in him, and by nice I mean he limits the name-calling to four times a day.

So I plopped down on the dingy couch we found in a dumpster and actually had some "father-son" bonding time. This year a Career went bonkers, the Four girl. Showing her balled up crying in the tall bushes of the Arena, they replayed the scene of her district dude's head getting chopped clean off. One good swing of an axe and POP! I screamed. Laurens laughed. Then Caesar and Claudius cut to the 61st Hunger Games. The Cornucopia scene. One lone boy scrambled to the horn only to quickly meet his end. While Claudius compared his death to the Career kid's, I couldn't help but be fascinated by the boy getting done in with the gigantic axe. Light brown hair, dark eyes, short, slim build. He looked just like me! I thought 'Is that…..no way. No. It couldn't.' My suspicions were confirmed in a typical Laurens-fashion.

'Boy,' he mumbled, popping open yet another bottle of beer. 'That's your daddy right there. The one getting killed. He wasn't the smartest thing around. Now I see where you get it!'

I was too shocked to shoot an insult back. That's it! That's why Mom wouldn't tell me how you died. Or how the adults give me that sympathetic look and a few leftovers whenever I come around. They knew I was the child rendered fatherless by the Games. How did I not notice?

I don't know how I feel about this. To be totally honest, I'm angry. With you Dad. Actually I'm pissed the fuck off. Just you and that other girl stayed. At least she had a reason. Not you though. You were so stupid Dad, so stupid to just waltz on over to the Cornucopia. Did you not see everyone else leave the bloodbath? Because of you Mom _and_ me have to slave in the factories. Because of you I don't play with my friends anymore. I don't have friends. Because of you Mom had to fill in the void you left with pathetic men like Laurens. Who knows just how many stragglers have been in and out of this hole in the wall when I was younger. Laurens just stayed here the longest. Nine years later and she's still bitter over what happened. She takes it out on me you know. I never understood why until now. You embarrassed yourself, us, and District Five with such an easy kill. No better that I'm your splitting image, a living reminder of what her life used to be. Of when she didn't have to cry herself to sleep while some scraggly drunk did things to her. I hear them late at night Dad. Laurens doesn't bother being quiet.

I'm crying as I write this out. I'm crying because I don't think things will get better. I _know_ things won't get better. Mom just got home and Laurens's begging for some money already. I really don't know why my life is like this. Why me? What did I do?

I hate you Dad. I really, really hate you.

Expect this to be the last letter I write to you Nace.

* * *

><p><em>February 2, 359<em>_th__ Year of Panem, 72__nd__ Hunger Games_

Hey.

So I know I said I would never write you again. I had kept with my promise too-just about two years since the last one. But some things have been going on. Good things. I had to tell somebody about it. I found a sheet of paper and the same pretty blue pen thrown under my bed and thought I'd give it a try again.

A few months after that last letter, we hit some real hard times. Like having-to-steal-from-the-neighbors- two-doors- down hard times. I thought making friends with the neighbors' kid and even bearing through her huge crush on me would be worth it. It was, for a little while. To make a long story short, she caught me sneaking out of her apartment with some of her food. The ugly witch; she had pantries full of the stuff anyway! Three whippings later and I've never stolen another can of corn again. Well, I never got _caught_ stealing another can of corn again.

But on to the good things. Mom's job started giving her more hours after an accident took out five or six workers. An electrical mishap or something. Not sure if they died. I am sure that it meant more money for us, and more money means more food. Finally I can go to bed not gnawing off the ends of my pillow. Mom even got in good with the plant manager. He's come around once or twice. Pudgy, big-nosed guy. Likes compliment Mom too much. Laurens doesn't like him.

Speaking of Laurens, he's finally doing something with his life. He's straightened up at work, coming in on time and completing his tasks. Almost got Janitor of the Month. He cut down on the drinking too plus shaved that ugly beard of his, a damn miracle that was. The downside to going cold turkey is the horrible (well, even worse) attitude that Laurens has taken on. There's an argument every three seconds in this place. He's cooled it with me. A black eye and bloody nose will solve any disagreement. I stay out of his way, for Mom's sake. At least he's trying I guess. Still not gonna call him Dad though.

Since Mom and Laurens are getting more hours, I get time to pretty much be a kid. I have friends now, real ones. Ewan and Manfred are brothers and they're super cool. They live five floors down from me. They're a little better off than us, both their parents working in the solar factories across Ampere, but they aren't stuck up in the least bit. Those two seriously are the nicest guys you'll ever meet. Lars lives in the brick apartments close to the shopping area, the newly built ones. Though he's got a little attitude about himself, thinking since he's older than us and his place's got heating and air that that makes him the leader of our 'posse'. The four of us play outside, get in trouble. Just do normal boy stuff. Sports all day. I can play a mean dirtball. Mom isn't too happy with my new hobby. Neither is the living room carpet.

There's this girl too. Short black hair with a little headband right on the top. Always dressed in pretty skirts and white slippers with scruffs on the tips. I don't know her name. I don't even know what apartment she lives in. We cross paths when I'm heading to work every now and then. Four times we've caught each other looking. Once she smiled. I spotted some scars lining the side of her neck. I wonder what her name is? Ask her where she got those scars from. Why her eyes are so nice. Maybe I will, once I stop being such a wuss.

So that's what's all been going on. I'm sorry for pretty much cutting you out of my life. I was being really stupid. I miss being able to I talk to you. When I write these letters, I can be myself. I can let my tough-guy guard down. To actually be happy for once…I never felt this way before. I feel like I could conquer the world. I feel like I can win the Hunger Games! Okay, let me not jinx myself. My first Reaping is next year.

See you later Dad,

Rudy

* * *

><p><em>August 18, 360<em>_th__ Year of Panem, 73__rd__ Hunger Games_

I gotta write this quick cause we're in a hurry. Today's Reaping Day. Mom went all out and bought me a button up and matching slacks from the market, "just in case". Laurens was more concerned with the money we were spending. It only took a month for his old ways to kick back in. He's still at the school but his drinking habit's got worse.

Dad, I'm scared. I need to be a man, but my name is in there four times. Food was getting low and we had run out of oil days before. This is already taken a toll on Mom. I'm your clone Dad, in the looks department. Like the dead walking. It was so bad she took off work and Mom never takes off work, ever. She doesn't know I applied for tesserae either. She thinks Mrs. Gorski gave us the grain and oil. It's better this way. If worse comes to worst, she won't blame herself. Having her husband and son go into the Games would be enough.

I know I'm just overreacting, that the chances of me getting picked are slim to none. But who knows what the odds will be for me (I refuse to repeat that stupid Capitol catchphrase). Twelve-year-olds do get picked. Not every year but often enough. And District Five is small. Everybody knows of everybody here.

Is this how you felt your first year? Or the year the Capitol chose you out of the thousands to die in front of Mom's eyes? Like the old saying goes: like father, like son.

Any second now Laurens will burst in here and drag me away. I gotta go Dad. This might be the last time we talk. If so, then I'll be seeing you soon. If there is anything after death.

Wish me good luck.

Love you Dad,

Rudy

* * *

><p><em>November 11, 360<em>_st__ Year of Panem, 73__rd__ Hunger Games_

Obviously I didn't go into the Games since I'm writing this. I'm not a ghost Dad (Now I kinda wanna be a ghost. That'd be so awesome!). An eighteen-year-old got picked. He cried when he was dragged up to the stage. He cried when the Careers found him second day in. At least they were merciful.

Mom finally kicked Laurens out for good. Come to find out he's had a girl on the side for the past five months. Mom can put up with a lot, but cheating must be the dealbreaker. So the guy I've had the displeasure of associating the term "father" to is finally gone. Left about a month ago and haven't step foot in here since. Not even a week after she ended things with Laurens, Mom's boss swooped in to save the day. I thought he was a total slimeball (he still kinda is), but he isn't so bad. He thinks candy will win me over. I'm not nine. Dirtball and candy will win me over. The dude is Jannik Lindquist. Another weird name.

Oh, and I finally know the name of that pretty girl. Franciszka. Her voice is real soft too. Lars makes fun of me for liking her. He's just mad that I found her first. None of the girls at school want him. Says he smells like rotten fish, which he does.

Love you Dad,

Rudy

* * *

><p><em>January 8, 362<em>_nd__ Year of Panem, 75__th__ Hunger Games, 3__rd__ QQ_

The two from District Twelve were here a few days ago. I'm not sure how I feel about them. They seemed different from the other Victors that come here. More nervous than the rest, especially the girl. What's so fiery about her? The blond dude accidentally took out our girl. Luzia was the best tribute District Five has had in years, and we aren't known for being real contenders. But something so weird happened: everyone was excited to see them. Peacekeepers had to threaten the crowd with open fire. District Five never cheers for the Victors, our own included.

There's been talk of change coming. Uprising. Rebellion. Manfred says we're gonna raid the Capitol and take over. Ewan thinks the Quarter Quell will be the Hunger Games to end it all. Lars swears he heard a kid whispering about District Thirteen. It's all talk. It has to be? I mean, a rebellion? District Thirteen? What can a bunch of factory workers do to the Capitol? Cut off their electricity? How scary. And District Thirteen was blown to bits. HP Augustus is taking things serious. He's ordered double the amount of Peacekeepers and set the curfew to 8 PM. The sun has barely gone down by then.

If there really is gonna be an uprising, which I seriously doubt there will be, then it's about damn time. 75 years of this madness. Why couldn't it have happened fourteen years ago?

Love you Dad,

Rudy

* * *

><p><em>December 27<em>_th__, Month 4 of the Mockingjay War_

The Rebellion was true.

District Five has been thrown into chaos. The entire country is going insane. Factories are shutting down. People are getting killed. Peacekeepers are being overpowered. You don't walk outside alone. They're attacking people. Both sides. A gun is put to your head: Capitol or Rebels? Say the wrong answer and they pull the trigger. They aren't kidding. Leopold and his wife were executed in front of City Circle a month after the Quarter Quell was interrupted. He was the oldest Victor in Five. What harm was an elderly couple gonna cause? It happened to Jannik too. They shot him one night when he was closing up the factory, right in the temple. Mom hasn't been the same since. She doesn't talk anymore.

We lost the apartment last week. Couldn't afford it with no money coming in. Franciszka's parents were kind enough to take us in. We're sorta dating now. I would rub it in Lars's face, but he's been missing for a few days now. Ewan too.

Dad, I'm sorry for being such a brat over the years, for ignoring you and almost erasing you from my life. I need to make it up to you. I'm thinking about joining the rebels. Do you think it's a good idea? It won't take long for me to learn my way with a gun. I'm small too. Be good for getting away from Peacekeepers. The Capitol already snatched away my father and father-in-law. Revenge is necessary. Inevitable. I want to make you proud. I need to make you proud. Whatever happens, I hope you are.

I hear gunshots downstairs. Someone's screaming. I gotta go.

I love you Daddy,

Rudolf Pololanik


	11. Morgana: Freedom

**So this is the longest chapter I've ever created, longer than the final update of Roulette. I must have really been inspired while writing this piece. If this seems eerily familiar to The Selection, I apologize in advance. Morgana's one-shot was concocted long before I knew of that series' existence. FYI, I haven't read the book, just a summary.**

**As an added note, I changed Dmitri's last name (accidentally gave him Nace's) and put up a poll on my profile.**

* * *

><p><strong>Morgana Jankovic, District Five: Freedom<strong>

**Place in the 61****st**** Hunger Games: 8****th**** Place**

* * *

><p>There are many things I could be doing right now.<p>

I could be reading. Reading was soothing. An escape. Newspapers, pamphlets, instructions, manuals, guides, textbooks, books. Books were my favorite. Fiction books in particular. I've only ever owned two. One about a poor boy freeing a man sold to slavery. The other a series of stories based on the journeys and adventures of beautiful women. 'Princesses' they were called. Both courtesy of Mayor Sinnely. Years back, his son, Renard or something, went to go play a little Game and never came back. In his sorrow, the leading figure of District Five tossed his dead son's possessions into the streets, declaring it all public property. Thank goodness I was walking past. Thank goodness I was walking fast. The book about beautiful women, fairy tales as they're titled, is my favorite. Why can't life be a princess book? Meet the man of my dreams, marry him, live happily ever after. Simple. Happy. A done deal. Except this is real life, and things rarely, if ever, work your way.

I could be working. I didn't like working. I _hated_ working. But it made money. Nevermind the monotonous tasks. Nevermind the walk home at hours no teenage girl should face alone. Nevermind the friendly boys and the eager manager more than willing to get you inside his office. It allowed me food, shelter, and means to avoid Mom and Dad's wake. As long as I got paid they could harass me and work me till their balls shriveled up dry and I killed over. Pride can take a backseat when my survival is at stake.

I could even be sleeping. Should be sleeping. How wonderful would it be to just lie down and go to _sleep_. Panem knows I deserve it, attending school then at the plant seven hours straight. If I just lay my head down on this pillow, hum a response when it goes silent. She won't notice. Her back is turned. Yes, she's still talking. She's still…

…..

"Morgana, are you even listening to me?"

I shoot straight up. The cushy throw pillow I was resting on rolls off the bed, giving me away. Damn.

"Yeah, of course," I say anyway, hoping I'm a little convincing.

She makes a face, bending to pick it up. "The drool running down your chin says otherwise."

Instead of doing something worth my dwindling energy, my night is occupied with talks of make-up and perfumes, etiquette and social graces, what color is best for my skintone and the perfect hair accessory. Feminine fusses the average Five girl could care less about. Though tonight, tonight I must pretend that it has been my life mission to coordinate my eyeshadow with my shoes and scour every piece of silverware in the kitchen drawers of Panem until my skin rips off.

"Because this is the night you've been waiting for your whole life," we say in unison. My tone sarcastic. Her tone a drug addict discovering the secret recipe to morphling.

A hum at levels no human should be able to produce comes from the teenaged girl. "See? You're finally understanding."

My bored gaze trails over to the dingy clock siting on the paint-chipped dresser. The front glass is shattered and the sides are scuffed with dirt marks but it still gives out the correct time. I think.

The Showcase starts in 45 minutes. Katarzyna is beside herself with glee. I'm beside myself in misery. Every few years, or whenever one of the moneybags die off, a contest is hosted. A suitor requests for a bride or a groom to wed. A Reaping of sorts, minus the blood, gore, and casual dismemberment. The wealthy, or the Elites as we call them, thought up the idea. Around the time of the Dark Days, the Elites would stick together, only marrying and reproducing with those of equal finances. They were convinced the perfect plan had been concocted, and for a while, it was. Until they realized one small problem: they were a very, very small social class. Twenty-four years into post-Dark Days Panem, cousins were wedding cousins, brothers were in bed with sisters. A secret romance between one father and his daughter is an old rumor still running wild in the sectors. It took for a physically deformed child, murdered soon after his birth, for the Elites to realize they were in trouble. A horrible dilemma was on their hands: Mate with the commoners, or face extinction.

Unfortunately, they chose the former.

It's a simple process: apply at the Justice Building, a representative arrives at your apartment number, you're rated on a variety of pointless qualifications that mean nothing if you've got the looks. If you get a call back, you're in. If not, have fun dying in the factories. You only get one shot. So that is why I've been trapped inside this tiny bedroom for the past two, three hours. Katarzyna took it upon herself to educate and enlighten me on all things frilly and feminine to prepare me for my showing.

My cousin and I have an interesting relationship. One of my only friends, we have quite a history. Growing up, there always seemed to have been a very one-sided competition between the two of us, despite a three-year age difference. I make a decent mark in school, Katarzyna scores the highest grade in her class. In the miracle Mom and Dad remembers and can afford to buy me a birthday gift, she doubles her hours at the plant to have the same pair of slippers. A boy tells me I'm cute, she's drooling over him the next week. An unspoken game of one-upmanship, one she'd never own up to if called out on her bullshit. I've never understood it: Katarzyna is prettier, smarter, better known and better liked than me. Green-eyed. Curves. Rare feats for a Five girl. Her parents have always had more than us too. Uncle Serban made sure of that. How, I have no clue. Just look at her place. Who can afford a vanity mirror and cheap makeup? Cheap makeup!

Couple of years back, Katarzyna applied for a suitor. Was the same age as me. Even made it to The Showcase. It was her dream since we were kids. She learned to strut before she walked, my aunt and uncle would say. Never answered to any nicknames either. Still won't, thinking them to be "low-class". She could just feel the ring on her finger till it was snatched right under her nose. A whiter-teethed, bigger-breasted girl got the position.

That was the first time I witnessed a breakdown.

Everyone thinks she's gotten over it, thinking time and a new marriage healed the pain. Yet the things she's told me, the things she's let slip out, says otherwise. She wanted to be a part of the Elites _bad_. 'I would have poisoned the broad had it not been too risky. I deserve to be his wife! Not her! I worked my damn ass off and she shows a little nipple and gets in? First-class fuckery I tell you! Sabotage!' were her words after one particularly rough morning.

Now, you'd think the girl had not a care in the world. All smiles and sunshine. Would never guess around this time three years ago she was ready to kill herself. That's another thing about my cousin: she wallows in delusion. It's her addiction. Her husband goes out doing Panem knows what or who and is spotted doing whatever or whoever? He's out slaving away at the plant silly. Nigel knows his place is at home. Those are scratches and bruises on her body? It was just a clumsy day and that's what she gets for nagging Nigel after a hard day. Women always know how to irritate a man. The sky is blue? Well actually it's a pleasant white and green polka-dot shade if you squint your eyes, tilt your head, and do a handstand.

My third attempt to sleep fails when Katarzyna emits another squeal, clapping her hands together.

"Oh Morgana. This is the _perfect_ dress for you."

Her hand flies in then flies out of her closet. Skipping my way to the hard, twin-sized bed I'm currently lounging on, in her grasp is the outfit I will be wearing. Not may be wearing, because that suggests that I have a say in the matter. It's a lime green mish-mash of satin and chiffon. One-sleeved, bows and ribbons vomited everywhere, well above the knees. The throwaway strips and scrapes of District Eight have united to produce this abomination to all things fabric. Prostitute meets baby feces. What in Panem's name is she thinking?

"It's hideous."

"It's flawless. Absolutely flawless."

"I will not wear that."

"There's no other dress that will do, don't you agree?" The crime against humanity is thrown my way, me letting it fall on the cotton comforter.

Katarzyna nods her head in anticipation. "Well. Try it on. We still have your hair and face to do."

I do as I'm told. Reluctantly slipping off my work uniform, a faded blue jumpsuit with the District Five seal sewn on the back and standard-issued sneakers, I squeeze into the dress. One look in the mirror and one feel at my stomach and my suspicions are confirmed. The dress is impossibly tight. One false move and the ball will turn into a striptease. In an effort of forced cleavage, my boyish chest has been smashed together, almost, just almost revealing that I am in fact a girl.

"Take these." Katarzyna throws me a pair of white shoes. High heels. I've never worn a pair in my life. My feet are about as happy as I am about wearing them. They're a size too small and I feel the difference.

"Stop diddling around and let's get started on you," nags Katarzyna. With each step a little slice of hell, I plop down on the seat cushion and let my cousin work her magic. She's always been the fashionable one in the family. Give her a pair of needle, thread, and scissors and she'll make an outfit out of a trash bag. She actually did once, when we were younger. Clothes are her specialty but she likes to dabble in hair and makeup from time to time. Since the few friends I have know even less about being pretty than I do, she was the best candidate.

A slender hand is put through the brown knot that is my hair. It's trapped two seconds in. Her smile drops then reappears before my head can completely lift up. Laid out in front of me are her weapons: dull scissors, plastic comb missing a few teeth, brush, and a half-empty bottle of perfume.

The battle begins.

"Your hair. Full of curls. Pretty unique."

Translation: This is a mess. What did you give me to work with? A ball of yarn?

The comb is her first defense. It barely survives the assault, one stroke away from breaking in half.

"Styled right I could crop it to your diminutive face and features."

Translation: Your eyes are too big, nose too small, and what is with your forehead?

Brush and blush is her second attack. It proves to be effective.

"A dab of perfume and you'll be set."

Translation: You smell Morgana. Did you shower today?

Sprays, brushstrokes, scissors, and three hairballs later and I've been transformed. No longer am I don't-mind-me-just-trying-survive Morgana. I am now Ms. Morgana-will-be-finding-and-falling-in-love-with-the-man-of-my-dreams-tonight Jankovic. Hair somehow tamed into a curly bob, pink blush and lipstick enhancing my features, I gotta admit: I do look nice. No, attractive. A little sexy if I dared.

I still can't breathe in this dress.

Katarzyna seems close to tears, hand over her mouth, overcome with emotion. "My little cousin. All grown up!" I'm pulled into a bear hug and I tap her elbow in support. Seconds later, I'm shoved out of the way, falling face first on the white sheets of the bed courtesy of these heels. The cousin bonding time has reached its limit. Trying to quickly wipe away the bright lipstick mark smeared on the bedspread, I see Katarzyna has already turned her total attention to primping herself for the evening. She is like a madwoman; zooming around the room, shifting through her closet, styling her hair, and applying on truckloads of makeup all at once. Not once does she acknowledge my existence during the tornado.

I wonder how she feels about me? Getting a shot at The Showcase when her chance was stolen from her. She despises me right now, I know my cousin, but she hides her psychotic jealousy well. Just like everything else in her life. Glancing to where she sits, I notice her inspecting and plucking out each nose hair she discovers. She does know that she could escort me to the ball butt naked and receive not a glance her way right? Not to be conceited because I'm far from excited about this, but this is my Showcase that I'm attending. Her glory days are over. Time to hang it up and face the music.

I love my cousin and she loves me (I think), but the cattiness and ridiculous delusions have got to stop. She's married with her own place now. Game over. You win.

"25 minutes left!" shouts Katarzyna, straightening her bangs, leaving the mirror, then returning to adjust her cleavage. One final look over and she's satisfied, giving her reflection a pleased 'mm-hmm'.

I decide to voice one thought that's been running through my head all night and ask her a question I know she won't answer truthfully. "Katarzyna, how did you afford this stuff?"

Her trance broken, long black hair swings back and forth as she searches for the bedroom intruder. Spotting my small figure still sitting on the bed, a side glance is given my way, annoyed that I've interrupted her fantasy with reality. "Oh you know, my Dad knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a Peacekeeper. The usual. What's it to you?"

My hands go up in a small sign of surrender. That's always her reply. Either that or 'Nigel works hard to provide for the wife he loves'. Never any specifics. Only basics. "Nothing, nothing. Just curious."

"Well curiosity killed the clown Morgana," her hand wraps around my arm and I'm dragged out the room. "Now come on. I can't be late for the Showcase."

"You mean cat?" I correct her, shutting the raggedy front door behind us. The hinges whine as they come to a slow close.

Her head flies to the side, eyebrow raised in question. "What? Enough of your nonsense and let's go."

Rushing down the rusting stairwells, we make it outside Katarzyna's apartment and head off to where the Showcase will be held. Four seconds outside and already my nose is turning red. Warmth doesn't exist in District Five. We're given the following types of weather: cloudy, cold, freezing, freezing rain, artic, and death. Combined with the sun shocking the population with a ray of sunshine once every 25 years and being cooped up inside the factories, no wonder we're so pale and sickly-looking. Probably the Capitol's doing no doubt. Tonight the stars are blocked by the usual clouds and factory fumes with temperatures ranging from the mid-hypothermia to low there's-no-way-you-can survive-this. I'm sure to catch a mean cold in this skimpy patch of cloth. Something wet falls on my arm, then neck, then legs. Oh look, now it wants to rain.

Walking through the streets of Five, a light drizzle starts up, making the journey to the Showcase all the more difficult. I'm shivering and twice my heel catches on the uneven cobblestone. Katarzyna isn't fazed one bit, gliding in her sleeveless gown, smiling and waving to the passerbys like a queen to her subjects. During Showcase time, people often crowd the streets or peek out their apartment windows to watch the candidates make their way to the ball. The Elites take refuge up high, neighbors to the Victor's Village. The few hills District Five has are claimed by them. The moneybags made sure to retreat there so they're both economically and geographically safe from us. Our sector, Faraday, is the closest to the in this weather, a walk to the market seems like a fight to the death. With a district-wide event like this, you'd think there'd be a vehicle of some sort provided for us. Instead, the handsome coachman is your most willing family member and sparkling carriage your very, very sore feet. This is Panem we're talking about. Since when has the big city done anything right? Maybe I can turn one of these street rats into a horse if I think hard enough.

Braving the battle between Man vs. Nature, I go to find something to take my mind off my impending death. Inching closer to our destination, I see the Victor's Village sitting in the distance. Out of the twelve mansions that line the hill, three are occupied, two illuminated in soft candlelight. The living Victors of the power district.

"You know," I go to speak, teeth chattering . "Reaping's tomorrow."

A group of factory guys, some I recognize, stand posted by the entryway to one of the plants. Around my age, most of them, doing their usual: smoking cheap cigarettes and generally being wastes of space. One guy, the leader I assume, shouts something across the street about 'green dress' and 'in my bed tonight' and his lackeys join in on the jeering, hooting and hollering like hungry mutts.

"Yeah, what's so special about that?" Katarzyna's too busy entertaining the horny boys, shooing them away with a dainty wave. To think, she actually finds that behavior attractive. That's probably why she's with Nigel now. The girl's a Capitolite. There's no other way to explain it.

Flicking off one of the guys, I continue. "What if one of us gets reaped? You are eighteen and we've had to take out tesserae more than once this year."

"We won't get reaped. It's a non-issue," she says, grimacing at a toothless woman smiling our way. Rather her delusions or an incredible amount of confidence, Katarzyna has never feared the Hunger Games. Not once can I remember her coming down with Reaping Day sorrow or getting nightmares from it. The only time her mental illness comes in handy. The chances of me going in are slim but you never know. Three more years and I'm free.

A thought pops up. Let's see how self-assured she really is. "Well, what if I volunteered?"

A laugh so high-pitched, so grating that I have to cover my ears in defense breaks through the relative quiet. My cousin's hand rubs my exposed back for support, her expression one of a parent consoling their foolish child. "Now I know you're under a lot of stress. This night means everything to you Morgana, I know that. But what is up with these absurd comments? First questioning my finances then joking about the Hunger Games? I'm not sure where this is all coming from but you need to put an end to it right now." A black heel stomps the pavement.

_But I wasn't joking_. "Alright, alright. Just teasing is all. Calm down," I tap her shoulder as a sign of playfulness. She's not smiling.

"I will calm down when you start appreciating the once in a lifetime opportunity laid out in front of you. Your parents entrusted me guide you on your journey to becoming a Suitor's wife. I won't let Aunt and Uncle Jankovic down and neither will you," she tells me. I have to bite my tongue at the mention of my parents. I have never been a concern to them so why should they be for me?

We're to the main pathway of the Elites' headquarters. Walking up the hilly terrain has got my poor feet shouting for mercy, small, round blisters already forming on the sides and soles. At least no one will see them with the shoes being close-toed. Because of my pained walk, two girls have gotten in front of me, mastering the hills and heels like they were born to sacrifice their feet for beauty. Try as I might, I can't fight the urge to check out my competition. Both girls have on floor-length gowns swimming behind each. One is a bit on the short side but neither is as plain or awkward as I am. I hope they're the minority or this is going to be a long night.

Arriving to the front entrance of the Showcase, both Katarzyna and I have to shield our eyes from the sheer magnificence of the place. The entire estate is submerged in light, as if the owner absorbed the entire district's electricity and plugged it into this one house. To call it a house would be a bold-faced lie. It's more like something straight from the Capitol. Music and aromas float through the air, tempting guests to come explore. Groups of people flow in and out. Some are sprawled out on the unnaturally green grass, a complete contrast to the cracked rows of cement, loose cobblestone, dirt down in the sectors. A gaggle of girls zoom past us, holding onto one another, squawking and flying about the yard. In their expensive clothing, the four of them land face first into the grass then cackle as if that was the highlight of their life. Clearly drunk.

"How amazing," Katarzyna looks on over the pair, envious, misty-eyed, imagining her life as one of those inebriated girls currently doing cartwheels in the open.

And they have on no underwear. Moving on.

I drag her away from the life she'll never live to stop at the doorway, a grand wooden structure inlaid with intricate carvings. I knock once. No answer. Going to knock again, an older couple exits through the door, stopping their lively conversation to give me dirty looks. I hear the woman whisper and the man giggles a little too loudly as they make their way past. Well if that wasn't rude.

My small hand bangs on the wood, more force behind it. Why won't anyone answer this-

"Why are you knocking?" A boy answers the door, glaring at me then Katarzyna. He's a husky guy, a little on the short side, dressed to the nines in a suit I couldn't begin to guess the price of. Full, red cheeks with a privileged air about him. The appearance of someone who's lived the life of ease, who hasn't worked at the power plants a day in his life. Decent in the looks department, though I expect better of the Elites. Is he one of the inbreeds?

Katarzyna is too enthralled with the inside of the palace to remember to breathe, so I'm the one that has to speak.

"I'm sorry? I didn't think we could just walk inside. Thought that would be rude," I answer, folding my arms in defense and to bring feeling back to my body. Back in the sectors, you knock. Try waltzing into someone's apartment willy-nilly and see if you make out with your life.

"Are you," I have to recall the name of the Suitor I'm here for. "Teodor Olsen?"

Almost instantly his scowl warps into a welcoming smile and his bored posture perks up, as if realizing we're worth his presence. "Hans Olsen, his son. You two here to join the rest of the pickings?"

Pickings? "I am," I tell him. A low 'ugh' creeps out of my escort. She thought I was going to include her too.

The door opens fully. "Why come in." His voice speaks to me while his gaze speaks to my breasts, eyes snuggling inside the crease of my barely-there cleavage. Disguising my disgust for the boy, I manage a tight smirk and enter inside, too cold to do otherwise. How can I say no to the warmth damn near pulling me in? When we hear an extra set of footsteps trying to sneak their way inside, we turn around. Katarzyna is staring at us pitifully, hoping against hope that she can tag along.

"I'm invited inside aren't I?" her eyelashes bat twice as the top of her dress is ever so slowly adjusted. Is she really doing what I think she's doing? Please Katarzyna, don't do this to yourself.

Hans moves closer to her, using the back of his hand to stroke her cheek. Katarzyna just about loses her footing caught up in his charm, cheeks glowing pink. Foolishness.

His voice is soft, debonair. "My love." In the background I fight off the urge to laugh at the two. This is absolutely nauseating. Meanwhile a wild dog could attack Katarzyna and she wouldn't budge an inch.

"You are very beautiful and, if given different circumstances, would have been my personal midnight dessert to enjoy. However, you have not been chosen for tonight's Showcase for obvious reasons I'm sure. Goodbye."

The door slams shut and that completes my cousin's second rejection from the Elites.

Spinning on his dress boots, he addresses me again, chubby cheeks turned up into round, red tomatoes. "Back to more important issues."

An arm wraps around my waist as we make our way through the hallway. Now I allow myself to be taken over by the extravagance and excess of the Olsen palace. There is seriously too much stuff for them to do with here. Like really, what do you need with two bookcases in the hallway? Probably don't even read any of those books. As I'm drinking in the luxury, a slow sensation crawls down my body. Looking to my waist, I see a stubby hand making its way down, down, down until a hard grip clamps onto my backside.

"Excuse you!" I shout. I shimmy out of his grasp only to find myself locked by his side again.

"Yes madam?" Hans stares at me cluelessly, as if I'm the one with the problem. "Something wrong?"

"You touched me," I tell him, holding my upper body in protection.

Swiping his greasy hair behind his ears, he gives me his signature smile. "But I can't help myself around beautiful things."

Right there, a realization hits me. I will not like this Hans Olsen. Call it a gut feeling, women's intuition, or plain paranoia, but I know what I know and I know that this boy is up to no good. His type is a dime a dozen: cocky, self-assured, thinking themselves better than sliced bread. Hooked on teenage hormones and thinking with their little head. A man will always be a man, no matter his wealth, or lack of it. Girls have to learn that quick, or face the consequences.

Ready to tell off the teenager, two people, a man and his little boy, come walking our way. Instead I'm forced to lower my voice, careful not to cause a scene and ruin my chances so early into the night. We both nod towards the man, who seems too busy searching for a bathroom for his toddler son to care about us.

"Well, could you please not do that again?" I hate how weak I sound. I'm telling him not asking him!

He shrugs, unaffected by my request. "Whatever you say madam."

We continue our walking, distance between us now. A smirk is still set on Hans's face and I ignore it, counting down the seconds until I'm out of his presence. We approach a set of doors grander than the first, pictures of fat children with little wings carved into both. Hand on the silver handle, Hans turns toward me. I prepare myself for another round of sexual assault, arms locked to both sides.

"Ready to have your mind blown?"

"Just open the doors please," I mumble, done with his antics.

Silently, he does so and reveals the main area of the Showcase. One gigantic room, stretched from end to end, is covered in sights, sounds, and smells of various types. A dance hall, from what they're called in the fairy tales. There are people here, countless of people, talking, laughing, eating, and drinking away. The soft music from before has intensified, a loud, drumming beat with other instruments I don't recognize playing in the background. Music isn't something we can enjoy too much of in Five. Listening closely, I see that the record is a rendition of Panem's anthem made more lively and energizing for a party setting like this. I almost break out into a backflip when Hans lets go of my waist to hug some well-suited men sitting beside the doorway. Quickly I scamper away, looking back only once to make sure he isn't following me. He doesn't notice my escape, too busy chattering with the men and gulping down a glass of something bubbly.

Heels clanking the spotless linoleum floor, I go to find something to occupy my time with. I'm not really sure what I'm actually supposed to be doing at this point. Katarzyna only told me general information about the Showcase, minus the gushing and exclamation of how flawless the men were. In the corner of the room are thirteen girls, plain plastic chairs placed along the wall. Some look poised and very put together, sitting tall, trying their hardest to blend in. Most seem unsure of themselves, gazing around the ballroom, twiddling their thumbs, slouching, gnawing on a fingernail or two. All of them stick out, dirt marks in a sea of perfection. These must be the other girls. The "pickings", as Hans referred to them earlier.

Approaching the empty seat to the far right, thirteen set of eyes fall on me. I first think it's because I'm the last girl to arrive but paying closer attention, I realize what the gossip's about.

I'm the only one in a short dress.

Each and every girl has on long gowns putting the Victory Interview outfits to shame and here I am in this three-inch catastrophe I didn't even want to wear looking straight out of a back alley of the power plants. If these sector girls are staring at me, what are the moneybags thinking?

Running to the empty chair, I make sure to sit straight up, perfectly still, trying to salvage my ruined reputation. Growing bored of just sitting around, I go to stand and head for the food. By the doors are tables and tables of food. The majority of the guests are enjoying the feast so why can't I? A can of corn is all I've had to eat today and I'm feeling the effects. I see one awkward, lanky thing a little too eager over there, juggling two plates. A sector girl. I can't blame her; everything we eat is canned, dried, or frozen.

"Don't go over there," the girl that was beside me speaks. "It's a test, a way to see if you can fight the hunger. She'll be disqualified by the end of the night."

We watch the mannish scarecrow slaughter the buffet food. She must really be hungry. Sitting back down, me and my stomach grumble in response. I am too.

Eventually the grandfather clock by the entrance rings twice. 9 o'clock. The Showcase is beginning.

A whirlwind of events occur. An older man goes in the center of the room to introduce the man of the hour. Watching Teodor Olsen stand at his podium giddy, not a care in the world, I see where Hans gets his looks, and personality, from. He's like a taller, even heavier version of his son. Plump-bellied, moustache situated under his nose, the hearty, violent chuckle that shoots out of his body every five seconds annoys the hell out of me. I keep imagining myself stuffing his little fat lips with an apple and searing him until he can laugh no more. I'm not usually a violent person but he really needs to shut up.

The whole reason for tonight's Showcase is because of his deceased wife. Just a month ago, she died of "unknown causes". The woman was barely 25. Not wasting any time, Teodor decided to go back on the market and get him a new one. Neither widower nor son seem too torn up over the very recent passing of wife and mother. In fact, they appear happy for the change of pace. Too happy.

The night slurs into a blur. There's conversation, dancing, eating, conversation, and eating again. I'm introduced to countless faces I won't bother remembering. Teodor meets me a grand total of two times. The first time was the general greeting to all the girls while the scarecrow from earlier was polited escorted out of the ball. The second was when we happened to be by the punch bowl at the same time. Both moments his breath was thick with brandy and his intentions purely physical. His hands ran free over my body, petting my hair, caressing my back, squeezing my backside. I look around, out of curiosity and as a silent cry for help, since there're crowds of people surrounding us. No one says a word. Not even the women. This is expected behavior I assume. Encouraged.

Soon we're dancing again. I come to the conclusion that there'ss no real formality or structure to the Showcase. This is not a coordinated competition as I thought it would be. Instead it's a chaotic, drunken free-for-all , with us sector girls thrown in as the night's entertainment. Easing myself away from an elderly Elite just barely conscious, I'm freed from his wrinkly grasp and spun into a far more frightening one.

Hans.

My body instantly stiffens. "You again."

His head jerks back and forth in an odd manner. He's drunk. "As always my love, as always."

The music changes into a slower tune, calling for us to dance closer together. Hans takes it to the extreme, shoving his crouch into mine.

"Stop it."

"No."

"Why don't you listen to me?" I let out a sniffle and wipe the small run of snot coming down my nose. Great, now I have a cold. Thanks Katarznya.

A harsh chuckle is his response. "Why are you so feisty?"

Those around us change dance move and we follow suit, breaking apart then smashed together again.

"I'm not feisty. I'm just telling you my rights as a woman. You really need to respect us more. We're the opposite sex, not an opposite race. And don't you have a wife already?" I recall seeing a pretty blonde on his arm throughout most of the night. Whether that really is his wife or toy of the moment, I'll find out now.

My speech on female empowerment and attempt to embarrass him is completely ignored. It only seems to get him more aroused. "I like you. Tell me your name again? I forgot it."

My eyes roll. "None of your business."

We dip, lowering ourselves to the ground then coming back up. The move practically sprains my ankle, made weak from standing in these shoes all night. I don't make a sound, keeping my straight face. I deserve a medal for this.

"Well 'None of your business', it'll be entertaining having you as my stepmother," Hans purrs in my ear, almost slurping my earlobe. In District Five, most people have their children young as life expectancy is rather short here, especially for women. It's not uncommon for teenaged girls to be married off to much older men and be close in age to their stepchildren, in the Elites and in the sectors. But the relationship Hans is threatening at is _very_ unusual. No one does those types of things with their children, no matter if the relation's through marriage.

I slap his hand away from my chest, squeezing it to the side. "What if I don't want to be accepted? I can refuse." If he likes feistiness, then so be it. I'm not one for arguments, but I'm not one to be bullied around by a man either.

His head is thrown back as the dance hall fills up with his cackle. "You won't refuse. What purpose does a girl like you have outside of my estate?"

My little fire is extinguished. Hans has a valid point. There are four opportunities for someone born here. Most live and die in the power or solar plants providing electricity for the Capitol, excuse me, Panem. If you're smart enough, you're "invited" to work in the Capitol labs that create and test out everything Hunger Games-oriented. Mostly boys get those jobs. They're rarely seen again. Their families get a lot of money though. If you're pretty enough, apparently like me, the Showcase is a desirable option. And then there's the Hunger Games themselves. Of course, we don't choose to participate in that. District Five has only two volunteers to their name. Neither won.

Mom and Dad signed me up for the Showcase. 'To get some use out of me', they said. The circumstances surrounding my birth depend on who you ask. Dad was infertile. Couldn't have kids and they didn't want kids. Then I came along and ruined their happy little marriage. The doctors call me an unplanned pregnancy. Relatives say I'm the family surprise. Sober Mom and Dad call me their curly-haired mistake. Angry/Drunk (they usually go hand-in-hand) Mom and Dad shout out words I don't want to recall. I've been sleeping on Katarzyna's couch for the past week or so after a big fight we had, so I don't what they call me now. I'm sure it's nothing you should say about your own daughter.

I should be thrilled to be here at the Showcase. Honored. This is my ticket out of the sectors, out of the empty life of factory work and canned corn. Yet is it worth leaving a life of poverty for a life of servitude? My life is worth more than being someone's sex slave and child breeder.

I shoot out the first thing that comes to mind. "I could volunteer for the Games. Reaping is tomorrow. Nothing can stop me from doing so."

I could do it. I could win the Games. Strange things have happened in the Arena. How else would Merand, the disfigured district drunk, have won his Games? Or Liselotte, the quiet bombshell? Even Olaf, the aging recluse, weaseled his way out of that horrid place. If they can do it, then surely there's hope for me. Right?

Hans doesn't think so. "You would die before the countdown even reached 20 seconds. Get real 'None of your business'."

"You can't have your cake and eat it too Hans!" I shout, angry at his aggravating ability to obliterate my confidence with every word he speaks. I'm drowned out by the clapping of the other partygoers. At once, everyone shuffles out of the dance hall and in the chaos, I lose a shoe. The Showcase seems to be over.

Arms wrapped around my back, I'm trapped inside his embrace. "Yes I can, and yes I will."

One kiss on the cheek and he's gone.

This must be some kind of demented version of a fairy tale. Hans and Teodor, the very ungentlemanly royal gentlemen. Katarzyna, the envious, mentally unstable combination of fairy godmother and evil stepsister. And me, Morgana Jankovic, the unwilling Cinderella of her very own horror story. Even the clock rang twice, midnight, and I'm standing on a near deserted dance floor searching for my other foot of heels. Is my dress going to turn into a bunch of rags too?

Crouching on the ground, I look up to see my white heel in the hands of my personal bully.

"Just wanted to let you know," he says, twirling the shoe in his chubby finger. "You and four other girls have been invited to stay the night. The second round of the Showcase. Do let me show you to your room."

I simply stand up, take his arm, and let him lead the way through the dark hallways of his palace, too exhausted to refuse. Too exhausted to put up a fight.

* * *

><p>I'm sleeping in the assigned bed when a noise pops out by the door. My eyes fly open, partially obscured by the mountain of pillows making up the bed. Seeing nothing in the darkness, I try to go back to sleep. It's been a very long night. Combined with the antics of Hans and his father, pretending to be something I'm not for such a long amount of time, and sleeping in an unknown environment so close to the biggest pervert in Panem, my paranoia is on high alert. The wind could blow and convince me that President Snow himself is here to send me off into the Games.<p>

Stop overreacting Morgana. If I just close my eyes, this terrible night will be over and it'll be morning before I know it.

A second noise, a steady one, tap, tap, taps louder this time. I shrug it off, chalking it up to my frazzled senses. Five glasses of champagne will do that to you. Or was it six?

When I feel a weight pounce on top of the bed, I realize that I'm not just imagining things. Someone is here.

Someone is on top of me.

Any ounce of sleepiness gone, the moonlight illuminates my bedroom intruder.

"Ha-"

"Shhh," a hand goes to my mouth, softly silencing my attempts to scream. The other slides its way down my body, falling in between my legs. My breath catches as I feel him break his way inside.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Please no.

No.

The hand comes from out of my private area, joining the other on the straps of my nightgown. In one swift move, the comfortable cotton is ripped in half and I'm lying in front of a teenage boy crying and bare-chested.

My eyes lock onto Hans'. There is no emotion there. Who is this above me? Is it the alcohol, or is this his true personality? Why is he doing this to me? Hans is sleazy and I knew he was a horny guy, all of them are like that, but to go as far as to rapeme? I barely know this boy but he can't be that type of guy. I can spot them, know when to keep my distance. I don't understand. How could I be so stupid and not see all the warning signs? They were right in front of my face!

One thing is clear and simple.

I won't go down without a fight.

A silent battle begins. Arms flying towards his face, we toss and tussle in the warm silk sheets. I kick, I punch, I bite, I growl, I scream. My hands fly to his undone tuxedo to yank him away, only to be pushed away and subjected to a slap twice across the face. Nothing works. Wiggling away. Scratching his arms. Spitting on his face. Nothing. Hans will not give up. He is so strong. He is just so _strong_.

"You want this. You know you do," he whispers, grinding his crotch into my backside.

I do not want this. I don't want this at all. "Get off of me! Get off of me Hans! Please!" I yell, hoping someone comes to my aid.

The halls of the Olsen palace are silent.

Flipping me around to face him, I'm slapped again, more force behind it this time. His words slur as he speak. "Quit pretending bitch. In that short ass dress you were wearing, you were practically advertising for me to do you. Now cut it out and take it. You're starting to piss me off."

Exhausting all other options, I leap from off the bed, tumbling through the pillow blockade. It's no use; he grabs at my dropped curls and my body is literally tossed into the air and plummeted back down, nightgown fully torn off in the process. Straddling my waist, grip on each wrist, the bigger boy subdues me with such incredible strength that there is no way I can escape now. I'm trapped.

I've lost.

So quickly I've lost.

Piggy is smiling. His signature smile. Slithering his leathery tongue over my locked lips, he whispers in my ear, cupping each breast in the process. "I'll have my cake."

Two fingers are shoved back between my crotch.

"And eat it too."

All I can do now is close my eyes and wait for it to be over.

Please let it be quick. Please let it be quick. Please let it be quick. Please let it be quick.

Smashing his manhood inside me, he thrusts in then out, beginning his business.

Does he care that I'm a virgin?

* * *

><p>Twenty-eight agonizing minutes later, it's done.<p>

He's by the door, buttoning up his suave pants and adjusting his immaculate tuxedo. I'm in the bed, motionless, bloody. Sitting in our fluids. My pelvic bone feels destroyed, and my private area….

My eyes stay locked on the ceiling. That's where they've been since it started. Closing them didn't work. It made me more afraid. Not sure if it was worth the image of a smirking, triumphant Hans ingrained in my head.

"That was fun." There's a giggle in his voice. He's satisfied. Got his way. "Better than the first two. Bravo. Well, on to the next."

Skipping out of the bedroom, he's just about to close the door before he opens it back up to deliver the final blow. Add more insult to injury.

"I've asked my father to pick you as his wife. He agreed, noticing your incredible potential. After this little test run, I fully agree. Ta-ta, Sleeping Beauty. Sweet dreams."

I don't recall Sleeping Beauty being awakened by the thrust of a penis.

Another laugh. I don't think I'll ever forget his laugh. "And don't you dare pull anything crazy tomorrow. No volunteering. Mom."

Not even an hour later, Papa Olsen is next. He wants his midnight snack too. The obese man is even rougher than his son, and my mouth finds its way on parts of his musty body I never want to explore again. Teodor at least spares me the talk and finishes much quicker than Hans, silently slipping out into the night once the deed is done.

My mind is made up. I can't take this.

I'd rather go into that Arena than face this for the rest of my life.

Mom and Dad will get over it. Their tears will be over the lost chance at striking it rich rather than seeing their only child go into the Games anyway.

Katarzyna won't care too much. She'll probably be on Hans's doorstep the moment I'm gone, rationalizing her actions in that fucked up, psychotic brain of hers.

If I die in the Games, then I die. Hans was right in what he told me earlier.

What purpose does a girl like me have outside of this estate?


End file.
